Forty-Seven
by Aalon
Summary: Set during Season 4, Richard Castle stands outside the interrogation room watching Kate Beckett interrogate a suspect from the plaza bombing case, when suddenly a single unintentional sentence launches an unexpected journey.
1. Chapter 1

**Forty-Seven: Chapter 1**

 **DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe.

A/N: I was watching the episode 47 Seconds the a while ago and this story hit me. Just a variation on how both of our favorites could have reacted when Kate was interrogating Bobby, and how things could have developed afterwards. I hope everyone has had a great summer. It's been a summer of surprises. Spent time with our daughter on her final hurrah through the girls basketball circuit, and then headed out to Florida. A day before the trip, my dad goes into the hospital. So here I sit in ICU, learning patience all over again. I had started writing this weeks ago, so I am going to start posting those chapters that are already done. About 18 of them. And no worries, I won't be posting all of the at the same time. No one wants to read 18 chapters in a row in one sitting.

 _ **Tuesday Afternoon, March 27, 2012 - at the 12**_ _ **th**_ _ **Precinct Interrogation Room**_

"Bobby – Don't lie to me," she tells him, the fire smoldering behind eyes that have grown more than weary of the little game this perp is playing with her. No, she doesn't have the time – or the patience – for this anymore. Unfortunately, Bobby Lopez isn't reading the tea leaves, and steps all into it.

"I'm telling you, it was all a big blank," Bobby tells her, drawing an angry frown from Detective Kate Beckett. Then he makes his final mistake.

"It was the trauma."

The explosion is immediate, leaving a crater of ragged emotions in the interrogation room. These last two days have been so close for the detective and her writer. So close. The dance that both of them have become so adept at has suddenly – in the past couple of days – taken on a different tune, a different rhythm. She thinks about her words to him, earlier.

" _It makes you think about all those things in your own life that you don't want to put off anymore."_

It was a simple sentence, spawned by the heartbreaking reactions of - and discussions with - the family and survivors of the recent blast in the plaza that is the focus of the current investigation – and this interrogation. A simple sentence born from watching strangers weep in the morgue, staring at the lifeless bodies of loved ones, their plans shattered, their unsaid words now locked away forever.

It reminds her of an old song from the 60's that somehow became a part of her consciousness years ago. Something about the words that resonated with a somewhat rebellious young girl.

 _In this world today while we're living, some folks say the worst of us they can_

 _But when we are dead and in our caskets, they always slip some lilies in your hand_

 _Won't you give me flowers while I'm living and let me enjoy them while I can_

 _Please don't wait till I'm ready to be buried and then slip some lilies in my hand_

Again, she thinks about the simple sentence she shared with him. A sentence, a thought that had been planted, watered and nurtured. When the thought broke through the ground, reaching sunlight, it surprised her to hear the words come out of her mouth. Not that she felt this way – just that she would verbalize it.

" _It makes you think about all those things in your own life that you don't want to put off anymore."_

But for Detective Kate Beckett, this flower now breathing sunlight was far more than just a simple sentence. It was far more than the typical innuendo she has become comfortable throwing his way. And he seemed to get it! He seemed to understand the subtle shift in their music. That was the exciting part. Later, he began talking to her about missed opportunities, and had they not been interrupted, well - who knows where their talk would have gone?

And behind it all is the dark and ominous, ever-growing cloud. Behind it all is her knowledge of what she continues to withhold from him; her knowledge of his admission to her, almost a year ago as she lay dying in the cemetery. That knowledge, it pricks her. It is the proverbial itch she cannot scratch, and after almost a year of this self-inflicted wound, perhaps that is why it is so fresh on her mind, in this room on this afternoon.

Perhaps that is why it spills out before she can catch herself.

"It was not the trauma," she explodes. "You don't get to use that excuse."

"I swear I don't remember," Bobby counters, the fear and confusion clearly showing on his face. He doesn't understand why she seems to be taking this personally. Of course he doesn't understand! Why _would_ he understand? Then Kate Beckett's carefully crafted world, the protective cocoon she has spun and weaved so precisely over the past nine or so months unravels in an instant.

"The hell you don't remember," she rages. "Do you want to know trauma? I was shot in the chest, and I remember every second of it . . . and so do you."

And in that instant, the subsequent silence damns them all.

" _Oh dear God, no!"_ she immediately thinks to herself.

She realizes it as soon as she says it. She immediately turns and looks back at the two way mirror. At the man who she knows is standing in the next room, watching her. She knows how he loves to watch her interrogate a suspect. She can't see him, of course, through the mirrored window, but she knows he is there. Further, she knows just where he is standing. He's a creature of habit. We all are. She knows where he likes to stand, probably a cup of coffee in hand, admiring her work.

She turns to Bobby Lopez again, and then back to the mirrored window, indecisive. She senses she is mere minutes from a full confession from this knucklehead – a confession they desperately need. She also knows that – if she does nothing – she is mere seconds away from losing perhaps the best friend – the best thing ever to happen to her, before this 'thing' even starts.

It's a lousy choice.

It's no choice at all.

She offers a now very confused Bobby Lopez a final glance, and he pushes himself further from the table, trying desperately to put more distance between himself and this intimidating woman and her cold stare. Suddenly, her mind made up, she heads toward the door, her eyes moving back to the mirrored window, and they hold fast to the window with each step she takes. Her eyes have lost their anger, their fury. Her eyes are now pleading with these final steps to the door, hoping he is still there. Hoping he has not bolted.

Who is she kidding? Bolting is exactly what she would do. It's what she has already been doing. For months. Run. For months – scratch that – for almost a year, she has been a distance runner, putting more and more emotional real estate between the two of them. Sure, she tells herself, they've been getting closer. A shared touch of fingers, a lingering glance accompanied by knowing smiles. But in truth, outside of the 'almost openings' they have shared over the past twenty four hours, they are really no closer than ever. They are no closer to a serious conversation. Her détente at the swing set all those months ago served its deceptively dual purpose so well. It's kept him here, and it's kept him away. Always in sight, and always at arm's length, never closer.

Look, but don't touch.

Touch, but don't taste.

In retrospect, it's the most selfish thing she has ever done, stringing him along with a vaguely-worded promise while she figures out just exactly what it is that she wants.

Everyone – from her best friend, Lanie, to Dr. Burke, to even her own dad – all of them have warned her incessantly about procrastinating, about waiting too long. Surprisingly, of the three, her psychiatrist is the most sympathetic towards her. Go figure.

Now, however, it is too late. Her lie – it turns out – as her father had warned repeatedly, was left out in the universe one day too long.

" _A lie tends to grow its own legs, and walk places you never intended it to go, Katie,"_ he had told her just a month ago or so. Damn him for being so prophetic. 

" _That's why you have to nip it in the bud. This one has been out there too long, and when it returns to you – and trust me, Katie, it will return – it won't be kind, it won't be patient, and it will reappear at the absolute worst time, when you are least prepared to deal with it."_

Once again, her dad has been proven correct. For a brief instant she once again chastises herself for not taking seriously the advice from a recovering alcoholic. If anyone knows the depth of the damage possible from lying to oneself, it is Jim Beckett. She pushes the thought out of her mind as she exits the interrogation room, eyes fixed on the door into the viewing room, wondering if there is any apology conceivable that can fix this.


	2. Chapter 2

**Forty-Seven: Chapter 2**

 **DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe.

 _ **Still March 27, 2012 - at the 12**_ _ **th**_ _ **Precinct in the viewing room adjacent to an Interrogation Room**_

"All this time. You remembered."

Richard Castle places his hands on the window, fighting the dizziness that threatens to floor him. No, he can't drop - not here, not now. Right now, the only thing that has won the internal battle currently waging in his mind is the notion of flight. As in, get the hell out of here, right now.

She lied to him. She has been lying to him. All of this time, all of these months. She willingly, deliberately lied – and continued to lie – to him. She looked in him the face, over meals, over coffee, across the desk, riding to crime scenes.

He gazes at her, watching her look at him from her side of the mirrored window in the adjacent interrogation room. He knows that _she_ knows he is there. Even though she can't see him, she is looking at him. He feels her eyes boring into his. He recognizes that she has just realized – at this very instant – that her lie is a secret no more.

"What an utter fool I have been," he tells himself, the hurt now slowly fading, replaced by a pure, unchecked fury.

It is a surreal moment, one of life's parallel moments that you can almost watch as an outside observer, even though the moment is about you, all around you. And he knows in this parallel moment, yeah, she sees him. He feels her continuing to stare at him before she glances away, back at her perp. It strikes him that, even through a window she can't see through, she knows him so well that she still knows exactly where he is standing in this viewing room. Her mind knows exactly where he is.

She's been lying to him all this time.

For some reason, he is thinking about Martha's earlier words to him.

"You realize your children are going to make choices you don't like. Just a fact of life."

Only it doesn't always apply to just children. Adults can play also. He recalls his mother's next words, which have just become all the more relevant given what he has just witnessed. He was trying to tell Martha how complicated the relationship with Detective Kate Beckett is. She was having none of it, however, and her words play back in his mind like a hi-definition movie on his blue-ray DVD.

" _It's complicated, so you say. Only it's not. It's not. Nobody's tomorrows are guaranteed."_

" _What if she isn't ready?"_ he had asked his mother, still not ready to simplify things. Still clinging to the comfortable 'complicated' he and his detective have created together.

" _Then she never will be,"_ was Martha's simple but eloquent response. _"And you move on."_

Yeah, you move on, he thinks. And his feet are doing just that. Moving, before his brain finishes registering the conversation occurring in his mind. One foot in front of the other, step by step he heads toward the elevator.

"Hey Castle," Detective Esposito remarks, wondering why Castle is giving up a chance to watch his muse in action. Castle brushes by Esposito, half knocking his shoulder as he passes, which immediately tells the detective that his friend doesn't even see him.

"What the . . . "

Esposito's eyes follow his friend, who pauses at the elevator for less than a single 'one Mississippi' before opting for the stairs. The door closes, and he's gone.

Castle is completely on auto-pilot now, his steps sprinting much faster down the stairs than safety would dictate, but he is zoned in. The 'flight' mechanism is fully engaged now, as he holds on to the railing to balance himself as he flies down the stairs. Less than half a minute later, he raises his hand to shield his eyes from the sudden onslaught of the sunlight beating down on him as he exits the precinct. Fortunately, a cab approaches at this very moment, and his arm immediately rises, waving the taxi to the curb.

"Just drive," he tells the cabbie as he slides in, shutting the door and allowing his head to fall back into the cushion of the seat, closing his eyes.

Rudy Garza has been driving cabs in New York City for almost twelve years now. Normally, picking up strangers who tell him to 'just drive' is an easy red flag. You don't move the car – you tell that passenger to get out. Far too dangerous. However, when said stranger is walking out of a police precinct? Well, that's come to be a fairly common 'destination' for those leaving a police station. Translated – 'get me the hell outta here'.

"No problem, buddy," Rudy tells his newest fare, and pulls away from the curb.

Castle takes a couple of deep breaths, willing his racing heartbeat to slow down. He wonders briefly if he is having a heart attack, as the pressure on his chest continues to build, as her words, her lips, her eyes replay the scene in his mind.

" _Do you want to know trauma? I was shot in the chest, and I remember every second of it . . . and so do you."_

He blinks the thought away, the fury continuing to bubble inside him, his hands forming shaking fists. Another scene replaces the interrogation room in his mind. He is back with Alexis – geesh, was it only yesterday? Or even today? Everything is rushing together now. Over a plate of 'emergency cheer-up pancakes', he had told his daughter that he just wanted her to keep the rose color on her glasses for as long as possible. As it turns out, the greater truth is that all of this time, he is the one who has been walking around with rose-colored glasses of his own.

He's not a cop, he's a writer. A damn good one.

He's not a love interest for Kate Beckett. He's a work partner. That's it.

Eliminate the rose coloring, and see life as it really is. It's not always pretty. It's not always easy. But it's honest, and true.

He remembers Alexis' response to the carnage from the plaza, to the new temporary visitors of the morgue, and his concerns about what she is seeing. She told him that she's gotten straight A's, and awards, and more trophies than she can count. But despite the awards and the successes, it is this job that is the first thing she's done that has made her feel valuable, and important.

"Isn't that why you do it?" she had asked him.

Damn good question, and honestly, he had felt a bit guilty – okay, more than a bit guilty – as he considered her question. Why did he continue to do this? Was it really because he felt for the victims? Was it really because he felt he was doing something that mattered? Or was it just because of her?

Was the only reason he did this, showing up at the precinct day after day, simply for her? To see her? Was he really that shallow?

"Well, no more," he thinks to himself, his anger now bubbling over as he slams his fist against the empty seat beside him. Fortunately, Rudy has seen this reaction also from passengers leaving a police station, and he ignores his rider. Instead, he does exactly what Castle has asked him to do.

He drives.


	3. Chapter 3

**Forty-Seven: Chapter 3**

 **DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe.

 _ **Still Tuesday, March 27, 2012 - at the 12**_ _ **th**_ _ **Precinct in New York City**_

Kate opens the door to the viewing room, next to the interrogation room she has just left. Her heart is racing, as her mind still hasn't concocted any appropriate words for the conversation she knows is coming. Unfortunately, the conversation is going to be postponed.

She walks into the room, and it is empty.

"Dammit," she says aloud as she enters the room. She knows he was here. She knows it in her gut. He wouldn't miss a chance to watch her interrogate, and something tells her he was here. She glances through the window at Bobby Lopez, who still sits at the table fidgeting, his eyes widening with each passing few seconds. Her vision adjusts, and she sees the two large handprints on the window, and a quick height gauge tells her that they are probably his. Immediately her mind creates an accurate vision of his reaction, of him putting his hands on the window in despair, watching her. Watching her watch him.

Suddenly, Detective Javier Esposito walks into the viewing room, joining her, clearly confused as to why she is in here, rather in the interrogation room with the obviously frightened punk he sees waffling back and forth in the chair through the window.

"What are you doing in here?" he asks. "Shouldn't you be in there with –"

"Castle," she says quickly. "Where is he? Have you seen him?"

Something tells the detective that now is not the time for his usual playful banter, and so he answers quickly, proficiently.

"Yeah, a minute ago, and he was in about as good a mood as you are right now," he responds. "He came out of this room looking real funny. And I don't mean 'ha-ha' funny. He wasn't right."

"Oh God, Javi," she says softly, expelling pent up energy with just a few words. He sees the fear in her eyes – it's something new and different with her. He doesn't like it.

"What's up, Beckett?" he asks her, drawing closer. Yeah, something is clearly wrong.

"Where did Castle _go_ , Javi?" she asks, now moving quickly toward the door, and making her way toward the elevator.

"No idea, Beckett," he replies, calling ahead to her. "He took the stairs, and was in a big hurry. Didn't say boo as he left, either."

"Javi, finish in there for me," she asks, jabbing her thumb back toward the interrogation room behind them down the hallway.

Not bothering to wait for the elevator, Kate sprints through the stairway door and takes the steps, two by two, holding on to the railing for dear life. She almost tumbles as she reaches the landing leading to the first floor, barely holding herself up as she rushes toward the door. She flings it open, eyes darting left to right as her head swivels back and forth, perusing the lobby area.

" _Gone,"_ she thinks, as she takes off running again, this time toward the door leading to the street outside. As with her partner before her, she shields her eyes from the sudden, obstructive glare of the sun beating down on her eyes. She has missed him just by seconds as she sees him slide into the backseat of the cab at the curb in front of her, slamming the car door quickly.

"Castle!" she cries out, too late, as the taxi pulls away.

"No!" she screams, when the typical, comforting honking of horns in the street pulls her back to the present. Scanning to her left, mercifully, she sees another cab – this one empty – coming towards her. She takes three quick steps into the street, her arms raised and flailing, flagging the taxi down. Pure serendipity.

She slides into the back seat, with quick, rifle-like instructions for the cabbie.

"Follow that cab, and I will pay any tickets!" she tells him, probably a bit too loudly, and clearly out of breath. She shows her police badge for emphasis. Okay, so maybe it is abusing her position of authority a bit. She gets over it quickly.

Seconds later, her cab is following the one Castle entered just seconds before, and her mind begins playing that unfortunate – and highly unwinnable – game of 'what-if'.

" _You should have told him sooner,"_ her mind teases, laughing at her.

"Shut up," she says aloud, causing the cabbie to offer a glance in his rear view mirror. Police badge or no police badge, this lady doesn't look all together.

" _You should never have lied in the first place,"_ another voice taunts. _"How else did you expect this to end?"_

Closing her eyes, she places her hands over her ears, desperate to silence the unrelenting barrage of voices in her head. They drive for a couple of minutes when Castle's cab in front of her makes a slow, easy left turn. She smiles, certain they are headed to Castle's loft. Yeah, this makes sense. He is going to hole up. It's certainly what she would do. She can't blame him in the least. But suddenly, his cab switches lanes, lurching, and makes a right turn.

"Where can he be going?" she wonders aloud, too softly for the cab driver to hear. Fortunately, her driver settles in one car behind, his eyes trained on the cab two cars in front of him.

" _As far away from you as he can get, I can tell you that much!"_ the voice in her head laughs. She shakes her head, trying to kick the unwanted opinions out. She is not successful.

" _And can you blame him?"_

"If only he hadn't heard," she finds herself saying aloud. "I was almost ready. We were almost there. So close. So close."

"What's that?" Marco Divac asks, thinking she is saying that he is following the cab in front of them too closely. The Turkish immigrant has been driving cabs here for eight years now, and the stranger in his backseat doesn't faze him. This is New York, after all. And she has a badge. Perhaps this will turn into a great story for his mates down at the bar.

"Nothing," she replies quickly. "Nothing at all. Keep going."

Indeed, it is nothing. Wishing that he hadn't heard her in the interrogation room is the coward's way out. It's the same exit she has been taking for the past year. Avoiding the truth. Hiding from the honest conversation so desperately needed. It's the journey she has become so comfortable with that it has taken a soft slap from the universe to push her back on course. She knows that the only way to salvage this is going to be something she isn't good at with Castle.

Pure, unadulterated honesty.

There was a time, when she was younger, when honesty came easily for her. But that was a long time ago. That was before Johanna Beckett's murder.

" _Isn't it time to stop using mom as your life preserver for every stupid decision you make?"_

For once, the voice inside her head isn't taunting, isn't teasing, isn't laughing at her. She can hear the almost pleading sound that echoes in her mind, drowning out all other sounds.

" _If you love him . . . if you like him . . . Hell, if you care for him at all . . . be honest. It will hurt. But it will also heal."_

She nods her head at the sage advice from her internal voice, the silent monologue fading into the distance as she snaps her attention back to the present. They've been driving for almost fifteen minutes now, through the typically monstrous city traffic, and a minute later, Marco Divac makes a quick left turn, and banks hard into the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel, heading toward Brooklyn and Long Island. Her brow furrows deeper, now having no idea whatsoever where Castle might be heading.

The tunnel, which is a continuation of I-478 running under the mouth of the East River, is always a marvel to Kate. The longest continuous underwater tunnel for vehicles in North America, it takes just minutes to traverse, given good traffic, which she notices she has this afternoon. She's not claustrophobic, but something about being 'trapped' in this tunnel – even just for a few minutes – is always a bit disconcerting.

They exit the tunnel, and shortly veer to the right. The tall, familiar spires appear painted against the spring blue sky as the cab slows. Castle's cab is now a full half minute ahead, and she glances quickly to her left and her right as she sees Castle's cab come to a stop.

" _Not here,"_ she thinks to herself. _"Surely not here. This can't be a coincidence."_

She watches in horror, her heart skipping, as Castle exits the cab some one hundred yards ahead of her own. As her cab finally comes to a halt less than ten seconds later, she stays in the cab for a few additional seconds, staring mutely through the window at his retreating figure.

"No way," she finally says aloud. "How?!"

She shakes herself free, opening the taxi door, she tosses a fifty dollar bill at the cab driver through the small window.

"Stay here till I get back," she tells him. "Please."

She exits the cab, and takes off on a slow jog towards Castle's rapidly shrinking form.


	4. Chapter 4

**Forty-Seven: Chapter 4**

 **DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe.

 _ **Still Tuesday Afternoon, March 27, 2012 - at the Green-Wood Cemetery in Brooklyn**_

Richard Castle walks briskly under the tall, cathedral-like spires into the fresh afternoon air of the cemetery. He knows exactly where he is going. Turns out, he has been here many times. The sprawling four hundred-plus acres of greenery and stone and marble open before him. He finds himself calming down somewhat, as he walks farther and farther into the beautiful silence. It has become a comforting place for him, and he is somewhat surprised that this is the safe haven, the cave he has unconsciously chosen.

Ten minutes later, walking briskly, he makes a right turn, and finds himself in front of the small plot. It is crowded, as he remembers, all but pinned in by closely distributed headstones all around him. He gazes ahead, roughly five or six headstones down the current row, where a freshly dug hole awaits its patron. The area is roped off, and Castle solemnly considers the silent gathering that will, no doubt, be convening over there within a few hours. He imagines the funeral that is likely going on right now. Or perhaps the entourage is already on their way here to cemetery, lights on, moving slowly through the city, or one of many the boroughs close by.

Snapping his mind back to the present, he glances down at the small, familiar stone grave marker, and the phrase he has come to trust regarding the woman he has chased for these almost four years.

 _Vincit omnia veritas._

Truth conquers all things.

He can't help but release a small, mournful chuckle at the sheer irony of the situation. Here he stands at the grave, viewing words that now all but mock his futile attempts of the past few years. He closes his eyes, not willing to see the taunting phrase any more. It's a full minute later when he opens his eyes again.

"Truth conquers all things," he mutters. "Yeah, right."

He touches the raised letters that softly whisper her name to the surrounding trees and gently blowing leaves. He glances at the myriad of headstones that surround him. Johanna is buried in a crowded area, but at least she isn't alone.

"I'm sorry, Johanna," he begins, talking clearly and now kneeling in front of the headstone. "I can't do this anymore. I know I promised you I would wait for her. I know I told you that I'd take care of her. But that was only because I really thought that's what she wanted, too. I thought that was the end game."

He picks a couple of dead flowers, pulling them out and tossing them away from her grave area.

"It's how I always wrote it. How I always wrote _us._ How I always saw it. Not as an ending, but as a beginning. Our beginning."

He gazes out at the adjacent headstone, then back to Johanna's.

"Only there _is_ no beginning."

A single, angry tear slides down his cheek. It's not a tear of sadness, or regret, or remorse. No, it is pure fury that fuels the single salty flow that now hangs off his chin, threatening to water the flowers below. It doesn't break him. It strengthens him, it energizes him.

"She will be fine, Johanna," he tells her. "She is strong. I thought she needed me. Like I needed her. I was wrong. She will be just fine."

Behind him, her voice is strong, startling him to his feet.

"You're wrong, Castle."

He turns and sees her. He tries – horribly unsuccessfully – to hide his emotions. She can see the hurt and the fury in his eyes, warring with one another. It's a picture she isn't proud of, and one she won't soon forget.

"How?" Kate asks. "How . . . who? What are you doing here, Castle?"

"I think that's kind of obvious," he replies, his voice stronger than he would have thought.

"How?" she manages again. How did he know about this? How did he know where her mother was buried? They've never – _never_ – talked about this.

"Your father," he replies again. "He told me where she was buried."

"When?" she asks, her voice soft, as she debates whether she should feel betrayed that her father would share this information with him. The voice inside her head slams her back to reality.

" _This place isn't about you, Kate."_

"A couple of years ago," he answers, now turning away from her and kneeling back at the grave. "When we killed Coonan."

The memories flash quickly before both of them, playing out on a large IMAX screen in vivid, multidimensional colors. The gunshot drops Dick Coonan quickly, as he collapses onto the precinct floor. Kate is right there, immediately, dropping next to him, watching him bleed out, watching his eyes fizzle for an instant as life strains and strains, before finally breaking free from his body.

Castle's voice snaps both of them back to the present.

"The next day, that was when I met Johanna here," he tells her. He gazes back at the headstone, a strange and beautiful smile on his face. Only for an instant, and then it is gone.

"I came here that first day to apologize," he continues, as his eyes glaze for a moment. Kate Beckett realizes that he is no longer even aware of her presence.

 _ **Just over two years ago, in January of 2010**_

 _He kneels in front of the grave, staring at the headstone. His Latin is a bit rusty, but he can make out the general meaning of the phrase on the stone in front of him. It means truth conquers all, truth wins in the end. He smiles, nodding his head in approval._

" _Hello Johanna," he begins, offering a quick glance around. Talking to a grave marker, to a dead person – well, there is a first time for everything._

" _You don't know me," he continues, before smiling, stopping himself. "Well, actually, you do know me, I'm sure. I'm sure you're looking down here, watching your little girl. Of course, she's not a little girl anymore. She's a beautiful woman. Smart, successful. But you know this already. You probably also saw that we got your killer. Finally. He's dead. Kate shot him. Justice was served. For him at least."_

 _He brushes a couple of dying stems out of the way, and cleans the small mess he has made._

" _But we still don't know who was behind it all - who put him up to it. And now that he is dead, well, we probably never will," he says, his eyes downcast._

" _We were so close, Johanna. I just wanted to say I'm sorry. We will keep looking though, I promise you. The man – or woman – who ordered your . . . who gave Coonan the order, that person is still out there. And Kate and I will keep looking. We won't stop. And I will watch over her. I will take care of her, I promise you. I will do everything in my power to keep her safe . . . and to make her happy._

 _He stands, brushing the dirt and leaves off his knees on his pants. He walks away, taking only a few steps before turning back, smiling._

" _But you do know that's not the easiest job in the world, right?"_

 _ **Back to the present, Tuesday Afternoon, March 27, 2012 - at the Green-Wood Cemetery in Brooklyn**_

Castle glances over at Kate, who is now kneeling next to him in front of her mother's grave. She is staring blankly at the words on the stone.

"I told her we had gotten Coonan, but the big fish was still out there. I've come back to talk to her many times since then," he admits.

"How many times?" she asks, her voice still small and soft.

"Oh, I don't know. Fifteen, twenty maybe."

"And you kept this from me?" she replies, her voice slightly rising. It is yet another mistake she immediately regrets this afternoon.

"You are not going to actually sit there and lecture me about secrets," he grouses, his tone far harsher than he intends. "I will not allow it."


	5. Chapter 5

**Forty-Seven: Chapter 5**

 **DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe.

 _ **Still Tuesday Afternoon, March 27, 2012 - at the Green-Wood Cemetery in Brooklyn**_

Richard Castle struggles to contain the anger that resurfaces. It is plainly visible in his eyes, and around the corners of his mouth, in his clenched fists. He doesn't want to argue – not here at least. Not at a place that he knows is sacred to her. Not a place that, over the past two years, has become somewhat sacred for him as well.

" _And you kept this from me?"_ he thinks, recalling her words from mere seconds ago. Words that now propel him back to his feet, as he takes a few steps away from her, away from Johanna, before he turns back. Kate, for her part, is back-pedaling now, trying desperately to make it right.

"No, no, you're right, Castle. That's why –"

"I came here probably ten times last summer alone," he interrupts. "While you were off . . . forgetting."

His words bite deeply. She deserves it, she knows. She opens her mouth, but cannot find a single word in her own defense. She breathes a sigh of relief as he lets her off the hook.

"I couldn't talk to you, so I talked to her," Castle says, pointing back at the headstone in front of her. "Turns out she's a pretty good listener, too," he continues. "Helped me through a few things for those first few weeks of summer. But after six, seven weeks . . . well . . ."

He allows the thought to tail off, before continuing.

"Anyway, Johanna and I know each other well enough," he says with a sad smile. "I came today to tell her that I'm done. I can't do this anymore. I owe her that much."

"So that's it?" Kate asks, pointedly and angrily. He's giving up without a fight? This man that has pushed and pulled and prodded and yanked for damn near four years is walking away? Sure, she screwed up, she knows this - but does that have to mean that it's over? Before it even got out of the gate? Aren't they worth fighting for? Isn't _she_ worth fighting for . . . at least one more time?"

She knows she has no right to be angry . . . or does she? Isn't something you desperately want worth fighting for? But how – or why – would he even know this? How would he know how she feels? Undeterred, she pushes on.

"After all we've been through, Castle? After all the missteps we've had, the little hurts here and there, and then I have one big fuck-up - and that's _it_? No second chance? No chance to apologize? No chance to explain?"

She's right, he knows, and he finds himself angry that he agrees with her. But she's right. If there is anything here, isn't it worth fighting for. Then again, fighting for her is what he has been doing for years now. And after watching her performance in the interrogation room, well, he's just tired of the fight.

Still . . .

"Okay, explain then," he grumbles, his eyes now burning into hers. No quarter, no mercy here.

"Well, I . . . uh . . ."

"Yeah, that's what I thought," he interrupts, now brushing himself off and turning to leave. He's made his peace with Johanna. That was the purpose of coming here to this site. There is nothing else keeping him here, now. The explosion behind him stops him in his tracks.

"Dammit Castle, I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" she yells at him. Both immediately glance around. It's not every day you see a full-fledged, high-volume argument being waged in a cemetery.

"I screwed up," Kate continues. "Big time. I know I did. I've known for months. Hell, for months it is all I can even think about. It's all my shrink and I talk about. Every time I see you – every single damn time – the guilt –"

"What shrink?" he interrupts again. "You're seeing a shrink?"

" _Of course_ I'm seeing a shrink," she says, waving him off as if it is the dumbest question in the world.

"Castle, I was betrayed by a man I loved like a father, a man I trusted. Then I watched him die. Then I got shot, and listened to the best friend I've ever had tell me he loved me," she continues, her eyes misting now. "Then I lie and tell him that I didn't hear his words, and I break up with my boyfriend. That's one hell of a week, Castle! Then I disappear from all my friends and try and fight through PTSD episodes. So yeah, I think I'm allowed a little couch time –"

He interrupts her defensive response – he recognizes the fight or flight battle waging inside her.

"I didn't mean anything derogatory by it, Beckett. Just surprised."

"Surprised how?" she asks, calming slightly.

"That you'd let someone help you," he replies. He takes a couple of steps and now is right upon her, his face mere inches from her own. It is both comforting and highly wanted, and uncomfortable as hell, simply because she can almost feel the fury radiating from him.

"I'm glad for you, glad you're getting help," he continues. "But it doesn't change today."

She nods her head in agreement.

"Listening to your words back at the precinct, and then watching your eyes watch me through the window . . . it was like . . . I don't have the words."

"Of course you have the words," she tells him, her eyes not wavering from his, just inches apart. "You're a writer for God's sake."

He smirks – actually smirks at her, but his eyes never waver from hers. It's a surreal standoff in the middle of a cemetery. Under other circumstances this would be comical. Today, it is far from it.

"It was like a cloudy veil was being lifted from my eyes," he begins. "Suddenly, I wasn't looking at things the way I wanted them to be, the way I'd write it," he tells her, not moving back an inch. "I saw clearly exactly how things really are. I'm in love with a woman who doesn't love me back, or may not love me back – no one knows. But what I do know is that love isn't supposed to be this complicated. No, it's not easy, and it fights against you sometimes. It isn't safe, and it can get a little messy. But it's not complicated. At least it's not supposed to be. But what we have – this is complicated. Unnecessarily complicated.

She opens her mouth to speak, but he shakes his head at her, stopping her.

"For the last year – give or take a month here or there – you and I have both been silent. Me regarding my feelings, and you regarding what you remember, how you feel. We have been sinning by silence, Beckett. And that's not smart. It's not brave. It's cowardly. That's what we do. That's who we are with each other. Well, no more," he says, finally taking a step backward, again, ready to turn and leave.

" _Castle_ , wait," she tells him, grabbing his arm and spinning him back towards her.

"After four years," he continues, surprising her. "After four years, I think I've done . . . whatever this is that we do, for long enough. I'm letting you go. I'm letting me go.

"What if that isn't what I want?" she asks. She thinks it is a harmless and honest question. She's trying to be honest here. It backfires.

"What you want? What _you want?_ "

He shakes his arm from her grasp, and begins to walk away. He gets four or five steps away. She knows she has lost him now, but suddenly he turns back. The fire, the fight, is back in his eyes. He walks to her again – and again stops mere inches from her face.

"This isn't about what _you_ want, Beckett! Not anymore. In a couple of months, my world changes, Beckett. Changes in a way that I have both looked forward to and dreaded for the past couple of years. Alexis graduates in less than nine weeks. She is floating somewhere between Oxford and Stanford and neither are right down the road."

He glances down at the headstone that sits beneath them where they stand. He returns his gaze to hers yet again.

"I have only weeks left with her before one of the two women on this planet who loves me unconditionally goes far, far away. For the past few years, I've split my time, my attention, my affections between you and her. So no, this isn't about what you want anymore. This is about me and my daughter. And you know what, Beckett? It's about allowing myself to find that woman who is out there who will actually feel the same way about me that I do about her."

"What if you already have?" she asks. It is a simple question. It deserves a simple answer.

"Have I?" he asks. "Tell me, Kate, what in the world have you done to make me believe such a question could even be possible!"

"Castle, I –"

"Kate, when you first told me you didn't remember – back in the hospital last summer, I didn't believe you. Not for a minute. I looked into your eyes, and knew you were lying to me."

She glances down, pulling away from his unrelenting gaze, but he grabs her face – gently – and pulls her eyes back to his. He sees the tears welling in her eyes, but they do nothing to alter his course.

"It hurt," he continues, undaunted. "It cut far deeper than walking in and seeing Meredith in bed with another man." Her eyes widen at the revelation. She has often wondered what exactly precipitated his first divorce. Yeah, infidelity would do it.

"Yeah, you wouldn't know that. And it hurt deeper than realizing – after a couple of months – that Kyra wasn't coming back. It hurt deeper than realizing – when Meredith left – that it really was just Alexis and I."

Finally – finally – he turns his gaze away from her. For an expert interrogator, she finds herself woefully ill-equipped to face his stone-cold stare.

"But over time," he continues, his back now turned away from her, "the further you and I got away from that moment in the hospital, the more I began to consider the possibility that perhaps you really were telling the truth. After all, I've never been shot by a sniper. I've never been resurrected from death. I don't know what that's like. I began to realize that you had to be dealing with a hell of a lot, and not just the physical pain. Maybe you did block it all out. Maybe the only way of dealing with it was to block every second of it out, shut everyone out.

Once again, she feels the guilt hammer at her, realizing now from his words that he indeed, had come to figure out what she was going through. He – on his own – began to understand how the mental anguish ambushing her was every bit as painful and destructive as the physical wound in her chest. She realizes – too late – that he really could have helped her, could have been helping her all this time. He really did understand.

"But the main reason I began to . . . to soften my stance that you were lying was because I just simply could not believe – could not accept – that you would continue such a horrible ruse for so long. Not about something this important. Not about me loving you. I couldn't bring myself to believe that with each passing week that turned into months, that you would keep so big a lie alive between us."

He turns to face her again, and this time his eyes, his tone, his countenance have all changed, softened. He looks weathered, beaten. It breaks her heart to see what she has done.

"I guess I miscalculated just how . . . calculating you can be."

Every thought, every defense, every excuse that flutters throughout her mind is rendered moot by his statement. Only now does she realize just how far she has fallen in his eyes.

"That's not fair, Castle," she finally tells him, able to get a word in. "I admit that this is all my fault – every bit of it. There is nothing I can say to justify my actions and the hurt I have put on you. On you and your family. I have no illusions that it has touched all of you. But Castle, it isn't as easy as you think."

He opens his mouth, nostrils flaring before she places two fingers on his lips. A simple act, of both intimacy and reflection. It stops his thoughts in their tracks.

"Let me finish. Let me have my say," she says quietly. "It's why I followed you here. It's why I left a perp in the interrogation room. I dropped everything to have this conversation, Castle."

He steps back for a moment, considering her. He drops to a knee, returning his attention to the headstone in front of them. His fingers once again highlight the last name BECKETT – on top of the stone. He nods his head.

"I'm sorry. Go on."

She manages a small smile that he doesn't see. It isn't a smile of victory, but of relief. She turns away for a moment, taking in the cemetery around her. She gazes down at her mother's tombstone, and decides that there really is no more appropriate place for them to finally have a moment of honesty. It seems that this place – this spot – carries importance for both of them. Yeah, life is full of surprises.

"Maybe it's easy to fix a lie on that first day, when it first escapes your lips," she begins. "Or in that first week even."

She once again drops to her knee, joining him at her mother's grave. She doesn't look at him. She stares straight ahead at her mother's headstone, silently praying for guidance, for the right words. For the miraculous words that could explain her actions.

"But the more time goes by, Castle . . . well, that lie grows. It digs deep roots, and those roots become stronger and stronger. It becomes enormous. That tiny little pebble that I just needed to cushion my fall, to give me a reprieve from everyone and everything – just for a bit – well, that little pebble became a small stone before I knew it. And that stone quickly became a large, jagged rock. A large jagged rock that became a boulder. And that was just while I was with Dad in his cabin."

She looks at him, and slowly raises her hand, touching his cheek, turning it so that he faces her. He has just told her that her eyes – last year – told him she was lying. She is hoping that now – once again - those same eyes won't hide the truth from him. He looks her in the eyes, neither one of them wavering even for an instant.

"By the time I got back to the city, Castle – by the time I got back to the precinct – well, that small pebble that I could have tossed away so easily months earlier had become a monolith, a Gibraltar around my neck. One that I have dragged around for almost a year now. I could have fixed this easily all those months ago, Castle. But after a while, it just became too big. Now it was just too big. And that's all my fault, I realize this."

He looks away again, returning his eyes to the three Latin words. They still mock him. He places his fingers along the words and she immediately recognizes the lunacy of this conversation in the presence of those words, of this place. Perhaps this was a mistake after all.

"Rick," she finally says, standing. He joins her as they both glance down at the headstone, neither now willing to face the other just yet.

"Rick, pray you never fuck up this badly. There is no relief, and no road back." She leans down and places her lips on the cold stone, offering a gentle kiss to her mother. She takes a step away, towards the path that will return her to the entrance, roughly a ten minute walk away.

"God knows that I am so sorry Rick. Not just that you found out. But for lying in the first place. And for so long. For being a coward. For ruining us before we could even _become_ us."

She walks away, her steps slow and deliberate, putting distance between herself and her mother's gravesite . . . and the man she loves. The tears finally flow now, in this moment, as she is realizing now for the first time, accepting now for the first time that she actually loves him. It is too much.

"I love you Rick," she says aloud. She throws the words out there, back into the universe, hoping they will replace the words she uttered last summer. Her shoulders shake with each step, as she struggles to keep the sobs inside her, and she quickens her pace toward the entrance.


	6. Chapter 6

**Forty-Seven: Chapter 6**

 **DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe.

 _ **Still Tuesday Afternoon, March 27, 2012 - at the entrance to Green-Wood Cemetery in Brooklyn**_

Detective Kate Beckett is a mess by the time she reaches the entrance to the cemetery. She offers a quick thank you to the heavens as she sees the cab still there. Marco Divac is reading a book, unaware of her approaching. When she opens the door and slides into the back seat, he is startled and releases a small yelp.

She smiles through her tears, which he quickly sees. Obviously, Marco has no way of knowing what has happened in there, but here is what he does know: A cop runs out of a police station, commandeers his cab on a cat-and-mouse espionage jaunt – _yes, that's how he's going to tell this story when this is all over_ – through the city and into the tunnel to Long Island where she – _yes, the cop was a she_ – stops and runs into a cemetery – _yes, a cemetery_ – after her perp. A little over a half hour later, she returns, alone and in tears. God only knows what has gone on inside those arches over there, and He isn't talking.

Yeah, this will be a good story, Marco thinks to himself. The taxi version of a big fish tale.

"Where to, Detective?" he asks, recalling her badge.

"Anywhere but here," she tells him, and he puts the taxi cab into gear when he receives his second surprise visit. The back door flies open a second time, as Richard Castle slides into the back seat, bumping her physically over to the other side of the cab.

"Castle?" she questions loudly. "What the hell?!"

"At least let me catch my breath if we're going to fight again," he offers her. It turns out that her brisk walk was a bit faster than he is used to. He had waited, motionless, at Johanna's grave for roughly a minute after Kate had left, wondering if he had – in fact – heard her final words accurately.

Thankfully, it's still and quiet in a cemetery, and so her words – even though she wasn't facing him, even though she was retreating away, even though her words were not meant to be heard – her words were still audible. They hung in the air long enough, and after waiting for years to hear those words, rest assured, there was no way he would miss them.

" _I love you, Rick."_

He takes a couple of deep breaths to stabilize his breathing, and rolls the window down to allow the fresh air to blow against his face and hair as the cab picks up speed, heading north towards the tunnel entrance.

"What's so funny?" she asks, irritated, as she notices the smirk on his face. Right now, she doesn't see any humor in anything that has happened today.

"I was just thinking," he begins, as his chuckles grow a bit louder. "I waited until you were in a cemetery, half conscious before I told you I loved you. And you wait a year later, in another cemetery, walking away from me where I can barely hear you, before you reciprocate."

She nods her head, it's a movement that is barely perceptible.

"You heard," is all she says.

"I heard," he acknowledges.

She can't help but chuckle at life's taunting irony. She stares out the window, taking a deep breath. Perhaps they can salvage this thing after all.

For the next few minutes, neither says a word as Marco steers the cab back into the tunnel, heading towards Manhattan. Once they clear the tunnel and the tall buildings of Manhattan come into view, Castle breaks the silence.

"Back at the precinct. If I hadn't been standing there . . ." he begins, rubbing the bridge of his nose. She knows what is coming next. She has hoped he wouldn't ask. She won't lie to him, not again. But she knows he won't like her answer.

"If I hadn't been in the viewing room and heard what you said . . . would you have ever come clean? Would you have ever told me, Kate?"

She turns her head, facing him. He'll know if she's lying.

"I don't know," she replies evenly.

He turns away, glancing upward at the buildings that begin to whisk by.

"Well, thank you at least for not lying," he says softly.

"One lie, for almost a year, is more than enough," she replies, her voice barely audible now. She, too, now turns her face away, choosing the scenery outside her window, passing by, rather than face what is inside the cab right now. Her thoughts, her words, however, continue.

"I thought we were getting closer, Castle. I thought we were almost there. I was certain of it. You started talking to me about missed opportunities. I was starting to share . . . share my feelings, but we'd get interrupted. Always an interruption," she muses sadly.

"I thought . . . well, my plan was to let us get started, to let us begin . . . something new," she tells him. "To let us take things to the next level without having to . . . without . . ."

"Without having to confront what you said you didn't remember," he finishes for her. Yeah, perhaps it is the cowardly way out, but hey – after holding on to a lie for so long, maybe the best way, the _only_ way to move on is to start anew. To ignore what obviously does not want to be remembered.

But life just doesn't work that way, does it? In the end, it all comes out in the wash.

Castle . . . Rick," she replies, opting now to do what she rarely does. She uses his first name, trying to get his full attention, and make the point.

"I'm going to ask a favor of you," Kate continues, "and I admit in advance, this is a big favor. Maybe one I don't deserve, I don't know. What I am going to tell you now is something that I am afraid you are going to just blow off. I'm afraid – because you now know that I lied to you – that you are going to wonder if I am lying now. My ask, Castle, is that you don't look at me as the little girl who cried wolf. I have told you a lie – one lie – and I know that I have kept the lie up for a long, long time. But please, don't let it overrule all of the other times I have told you the truth. Times like right now, with what I want to say to you."

"Hold on Kate," he replies, and he actually takes this time to move more toward the car door, away from her. His movement does not go unnoticed by Kate, and her eyes momentarily drop in sadness as he begins speaking again.

"Call it the heavens, God, the universe, I don't know – but evidently someone out there has decided that you and I have kept enough from each other long enough, and today is come-clean day. I have never lied to you, Kate. It's just not something I would do. But what I _have_ done, although not a lie, I know it isn't something you're going to be happy about."

"What are you talking about, Castle?" she asks, her detective-oriented radar now fully operational.

" _Just how badly is this day going to disintegrate?"_ she thinks to herself as she watches him fidget in the seat beside her.

He runs a hand through his head, and begins. Once again, he holds her gaze in his eyes.

"You were shot last summer. A sniper. You lived because of good doctors, and by the grace of God. You know this, already."

She nods her head, so he continues.

"What you don't know is why the sniper who tried to kill you hasn't tried again. What you don't know is why the killers who hired him didn't keep the contract alive and in place."

Her stomach is doing flips now, and a queasy uneasiness is putting a very bitter taste in the back of her mouth. She has no idea where he is going. How could she? But the preamble, the set-up – this doesn't sound like good news.

"They didn't get you the first time, but trust me, there _was_ going to be a second time, and a third time. As many times as it took, they were going to keep trying until you were dead."

He pauses, not for effect, but just to make sure this comes out right. He knows her tendency to run, to take flight, much like he did earlier this afternoon from the precinct.

"The reason no one tried to kill you again is because I made a deal to keep you alive."

He intentionally pauses again, this time to allow the words to settle in her spirit. He knows her, he's spent enough time with her to know how she processes things. He watches her little quirky response, how her lower lips quivers. Okay, time to drop the other shoe.

"After you were shot, I received a phone call. Anonymous. At first I wish I hadn't answered it. But later, I came to understand that if I hadn't answered it, you'd be dead," he continues, talking a little faster now. "The man identified himself as a Mr. Smith. I'm sure that's not his real name, but that's not important. What _is_ important is that he told me that Roy Montgomery left you one final gift."

"Roy? What gift is that? And what deal are you talking about, Castle?" Kate asks, her voice terse, her tone clipped.

"Roy had information in his possession – sensitive information – information that had been keeping the people who want you dead off your back," Castle responds. "Information that was keeping you alive. However, when it became clear to him that he – Roy, I mean - wasn't going to make it much longer, he sent this information to this Mr. Smith. Mr. Smith, in turn, notified these certain people that if anything happens _to you_ , then this sensitive information will be released."

Kate begins to speak, and glancing down at her clenched fists, seeing the fire in her eyes, Castle knows this isn't going well. But he has to finish this – now.

"Smith called me to tell me that your safety, and the safety of your family, friends – it all depended on you staying away from your mother's case. That was the deal that Roy had in place for you, I suppose, for all of these years. And when he could no longer guarantee that you would stay away from the case, it cost him his life," Castle says softly, his voice breaking.

In truth, Richard Castle considers Roy Montgomery's death to be his – Castle's - fault.

In Castle's mind, had he not pushed and pushed and encouraged Kate Beckett to keep digging, keep searching, then Montgomery would still be alive. Yes, Roy's actions as a young, wet-behind-the-ears officer helped set this gruesome scenario into motion. And yes, Roy had hidden all of this for his own reasons, and not all of them focused on Kate Beckett's safety. But in the end, the ex-captain had grown to love and respect his top detective, and when it became clear that her on-again/off-again search for justice was going to get her killed, he opted to stand in her place, to step in for her. It was a noble sacrifice after years of deception, but Castle knows that had he kept Beckett away instead of encouraging her, Roy would still be alive. And given that Roy has been dead for almost a year now, and they are still no closer to the man or woman pulling strings behind the scenes, well it's not like they've made a lot of progress that makes Roy's sacrifice 'worth it,' if there is such a thing. There is so much he would want to say to Roy Montgomery now, things that he wishes he had said, or even known to say, a year ago.

It makes him think about two days from now, about the ceremony with Martha planned for that evening. He has so much to say to her.

He finally pushes these thoughts away, as he sees Kate staring at him, with anger and confusion and hurt and more questions all competing for dominance behind those beautiful eyes for which he has fallen so hard, so deep.

"Roy is dead, and he died because you and I kept digging, kept searching. He had tried to keep you away, steer you away for so long. And that's why you were alive. Thriving. Getting promotions. Expanding. Yeah, there was always your mother's unsolved case, but you were still _alive_ , still going places despite that. You and I changed that whole dynamic when we redoubled our efforts to open your mother's case again, even unofficially."

Kate opens her mouth, but Castle shoots her down again.

"Not yet, Kate. I'm not finished. You'll want to hear all of this first."

He turns back toward her, facing her, his back now to the car window on his side of the backseat of the rapidly accelerating cab.

"Smith told me that Roy's death was so unnecessary, but your death would be just as unnecessary. He said that Roy kept you alive for almost a decade, and now it was my turn to do the same. Roy was gone, and someone else now had to step into his place, to keep you alive, to keep you away from the case. He said that Roy had told him I was that man. And if I said no, he told me you'd be dead within the week."

Castle looks down, rubbing his forefingers with his thumbs, only to give himself another second.

"I asked him how he could be so sure," Castle continues, now fully into story-telling mode. "That's when he convinced me. He reminded me that you and I were sitting in a diner when Ragland was shot through the window. By a sniper. He reminded me how easily that could have been you. Or me. He then reminded me that you were shot in the cemetery. By a sniper. He reminded me how easily that could have been me. Or Alexis. Or Javier or Kevin. He reminded me that these people could get to us any time they pleased, without warning, without us even having an inkling that something was wrong. Those people could shoot us in this taxi cab without us ever knowing."

That last bit about getting sniped at in a taxi cab is what gets Marco Divac, who has been listening in on the entire discussion. He had slowly been losing interest, as during the first mile or two from the cemetery, the discussion had been focused on some lie the woman in the backseat had told the large man. So what, people lie all the time. So much for the great espionage story he could tell his bar friends. All this was turning out to be was a he-said/she said disagreement between a fighting couple.

But then things started getting interesting. There _was_ espionage, and police cover-ups, a hint of mob work, and God-knows what else. This was getting better by the minute. There was a juicy story in here after all.

Until, that is, Castle talked about someone sniping at a cab. Suddenly, Marco pulls the taxi over to the curb, tires squealing as both Beckett and Castle are tossed about.

"Get out!" Divac orders the couple. "Now!" He has no time to mess around with people who have contracts on them. He knows enough to know when to be involved, and when to not be involved. Taxi cab drivers tend to become innocent bystanders, collateral damage. Well no, not Marco Divac, by God. He's getting the hell out of here.

"Get out!" he screams again, adding, "I don't want your money. Just go!"

Reluctantly, Castle and Beckett get out, flustered. He first, then holding his hand out, he guides his detective out of the cab onto the curb. She is barely out of the cab when Marco hits the gas, accelerating away, pulling back into the street and almost causing multiple collisions in the process.

"And that, Kate Beckett, is why I made that deal," Castle says, now chuckling at the turn of events as he points toward the fleeing taxicab. He grabs Kate by the arms, turning her to him, ensuring she doesn't run, ensuring he hears what he says.

"Anyone – you, me, my daughter, our friends, an innocent cab driver, an unsuspecting waiter in a restaurant . . . _anyone_ was a potential target, and there was nothing we could do about it. So I agreed. I told him I'd do it. I'd take Roy's place. I'd keep you away. I'd keep you alive. Since that time, it's been a phone call and a meeting in a garage, where . . ."

"You met him?" Kate asks, her voice rising. Castle tries to interrupt but she doesn't allow it. He has said enough, and she honestly is not sure how she feels about this. She hates that he has made a deal behind her back. But the logic he has laid out is unassailable. If she were placed in a similar situation, she probably would have reacted in the same way. Still, logic aside, she is pissed. She doesn't like not being in control.

"You go behind my back, and make a deal for my life – _my_ life! And you don't tell me about it?"

Once again, it is the wrong thing to say, today of all days.

"Again, don't talk to me about keeping secrets, Beckett," he warns, her last name rolling easily off his tongue once again. "Kate Beckett, if you aren't careful, if _we_ aren't careful, you're going to end up bleeding out on a street, or ambushed in some alley, or God-forbid, hanging off the ledge of some building. I can't allow that. I won't allow that."

"Arrgh!" she screams, running both hands into her head briefly before spinning and walking – briskly – away. She doesn't know where she is going. Just that she has to get away.

For the second time today, flight is the option chosen by both the detective and the writer. This time, it is the writer who gives chase. As angry as he had been earlier, he still recognizes that – so far this afternoon – they have finally started to have something that has eluded them for . . . well, since they have known each other: a meaningful conversation. No vague innuendo, no subtle hinting. They are laying it all out, wearing feelings on their sleeves so to speak. Being honest.

It is refreshing, and it is not something he will allow to walk away so easily. He catches her half a block down the street, almost having to break into a run. When he catches her, he also catches a glimpse of the diner out of the corner of his eye. In one motion, he grabs her arm with his left hand, while pulling her over to the door that he pulls opens with his right hand.

"Castle, what the-" she demands loudly, but immediately cutting her comments off as she is dragged into the small eatery and a dozen or so heads turn to see the cause of the sudden commotion at the front entrance.

She follows him – reluctantly – trying to loosen his grip as he still has her arm in his now. Undaunted, he takes her to a table near the rear of the diner before releasing her arm. She sits, flopping herself into the booth and sliding in so he can join her, which he does.

Comically, neither says a word for a few seconds, and both allow their heads to fall back on the headrests, exhaling deeply. Both chuckle at the notion that – even now, in the midst of what has to be the biggest argument they have had – they still remain 'in tune' with one another. After a few more seconds, Castle turns to Beckett with a sigh.

"So . . . where were we?"


	7. Chapter 7

**Forty-Seven: Chapter 7**

 **DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe.

 _ **Still Tuesday Afternoon, March 27, 2012 – in a booth at a diner in lower Manhattan**_

"So, where were we?" Castle asks, a half smirk on his face. It masks the real tension he feels, the stress that is weighing down on both of them. And both of them know it.

They both also know – or at least sense – that this is one of those make or break moments for . . . for whatever this is they are trying to start.

Detective Kate Beckett takes a long, deep breath, exhaling slowly. Her mind is a jungle right about now. Inside her head it is hot, it's humid and treacherous, with dangerous animals in the trees, rustling along the ground, swimming in the waters – while at the same time, exhibiting a sheer, indescribable wonder and peace and beauty. Internally she is in complete conflict.

She is a mess.

On one front, there is a war raging over her guilt for her lie – and how it has been exposed.

On a second front, there is relief that Castle is at least talking with her, after initially bolting out of the precinct.

On a third front, there is anger over Castle – in her mind – betraying her by making a deal for her life, behind her back . . . as if she were some child . . . and with her greatest enemies, no less.

On the final front, there is a reluctant understanding of the motivations which drove Castle to make such a deal in the first place. She can't fault his logic, damn him.

In the end, she understands – almost admires and appreciates his actions. But she is still pissed. Okay, it's irrational, maybe, but that's why they are called emotions, right? The anger still permeates throughout her spirit, nonetheless. Castle, for once, is tuned in to her anger, and wisely stays quiet.

" _Let her talk it out,"_ he thinks to himself. He's still angry with her for lying, and for lying for so long. He feels like a chump. He feels like a first-class fool. His first thought was that she lied because she didn't feel the same way, she was embarrassed. She didn't know how to let him off easily. That's what made the most sense.

But then he heard those three little words offered up while in she was in full retreat back at the cemetery. Those words have changed everything. She lied, yeah, but she says she loves him? Don't people do stupid, crazy, irrational things out of love sometimes? Didn't he – with the infamous 'Mr. Smith' – do something impossibly stupid, crazy and irrational? And more than anything else, after a year of chasing and hoping and praying . . . and then to lose it all less than two hours ago - only to have what he has wanted for a couple of years actually drop in his lap - well, is he really willing to lose it all now?

Hell, no, he's not.

He's just as much a mess as she is. Fitting.

Her voice snaps him back to the present moment, as he hears her speaking. In the background, he listens to Sinatra singing over the old, crackling speakers in the ceiling.

"You're right about one thing, Castle," she begins with a small smile of humility. "It really shouldn't be this complicated."

He merely nods his head. _"Let her talk it out,"_ he reminds himself again. _"And don't say something stupid. Not now."_

"I still don't like the fact that you made a deal for me," she continues. "It's my life, not yours –"

Okay, so much for being quiet, and letting her talk it out.

"Beckett," he interrupts, the small, previously quenched fire inside him receiving a fresh burst of oxygen, threatening to rage yet again.

"No, Castle," she, in turn, interrupts herself. "Let me finish. I don't like it one bit. I hate it in fact. But I do understand. I really do. And I don't like that you have hid this from me all this time – but that's kind of the pot and black kettle thing," she half smiles. "Given that I lied to you and kept lying for the past year or so."

"Complicated," he says softly, agreeing with her. "That's what worries me about 'us'."

"Me, too," she agrees as well. "Why do we seem to make everything so . . . so . . ."

"Difficult?" he finishes for her.

"I was going to say complicated," she smiles.

"Of course you were," he smiles in return.

"Seriously, though," she continues, and the emotions in her eyes match the words coming from her mouth. "I'm so sorry that I lied to you. I know it's unforgivable. And I'm sorry I kept you in the dark for so long. It's inexcusable. It was a horrible thing to do. And that's the problem. I'm just worried that . . . I . . ."

"What is it, Beckett?" he asks gently, trying to prod her along.

"I'm just worried that . . . in a similar situation, I might do it again. Nothing is ever easy with us, Castle. You and I just seem to take the difficult road with everything."

"I know what you mean," he agrees. He has a faraway look in his eyes. "Two summers ago I asked you to go to the Hamptons with me. A simple ask for a weekend away. What a disaster! You end up with Tom Demming, and I end up with Gina. I ask you to come away for a weekend and we end up not talking for months. An entire summer, gone. That's you and I in a nutshell."

He shakes his head rapidly, remembering how horrifically that summer turned out.

"Actually, I had broken up with Demming that day, before you left with Gina," she tells him softly. "I was hoping to go away for the weekend with you."

"You are _shitting_ me," Castle explodes, just a little too loudly, as a few heads in the diner turn their way. Looking around meekly, he visibly shrinks a couple of inches, crouching into the booth seat.

"I'm sorry," he whispers loudly, repeating himself. "I'm sorry! I . . . you . . . when I . . . say that again?"

She is half-laughing now, but he sees the tears in her eyes. Regretful tears. Yeah, half laughing, half crying. That's the perfect image for their relationship.

"You were leaving, and I had just broken up with Tom," she tells him. "I was ready to ask you if the offer for the weekend was still open. Then Gina showed up, and you two were all cozy and . . ."

She can't even finish the sentence, and her despair is only made passable for her by the expression on Castle's face. It's a mixture of horror, sadness, grief, anger, confusion. He resembles a grown up Calvin, without the Hobbes.

"Complicated," he repeats, sadly.

"At least you have answered one question that has worried me for months," she tells him, her voice distant. "Before Roy died, he told me they were coming after me again, because I was getting too close. Then he dies, and I get shot. Ever since then, I wake up in the middle of the night, in the morning, wondering how in the hell am I still alive. Wondering why they haven't come for me again. Whoever 'they' are. I guess I have you to thank for that."

They are quiet for a moment, and their waitress appears out of nowhere. Betty, according to her nametag. She's fortyish, with short curly black hair and a bubbly disposition.

"I get the feeling I'm interrupting something," she smiles affably. "But I don't want you wondering where your waitress is, either."

"No, no, you are all right – no problem at all," Castle tells her. "Thank you very much. She will have . . ."

He glances at Kate, waiting for her to place her order.

"Water, with lemon," she replies.

"Two of those," he agrees, as Betty offers a smile and walks away toward the kitchen. Castle turns his attention back to the detective, and there is a question on his mind.

"So you think you could do that again? Lie like that?"

She looks at him for a moment, but cannot hold the gaze. She glances away. Damn him, she doesn't want to lie.

"I don't know, Castle. I just don't know. I don't want to. I want to always be honest with you. But I guess when I get scared or cornered, who knows how I react? Do you think that I planned on lying like that last summer? Do you think that I planned for that lie to stay out there for so long? Don't you think there were many times – _countless_ times, Castle – that I wanted to tell you, that the words were right there on my lips, that I wanted to tell you to just hold on, don't stop loving me, give me a little time . . ."

"You kind of said that on the swings," he remarks,

"You think so?" she asks, knowing that he is just being himself, giving her an out.

"Well, kinda – sorta – maybe – in so many words . . . with sign language and pig-latin . . . like you said, we don't do easy. We do complicated."

They are quiet again, as Betty returns with two waters.

"Ready to order? Or do you want me to come back?"

Both ask her to stay, and after Kate has ordered a patty melt with chips and Castle has ordered a roast beef sandwich with vegetable soup, he does something that is new for them, something that catches both him and her off guard. He reaches toward her, with both hands, and grabs her hands. She watches, in amazement, as his large hands completely swallow hers. She is reminded again of how big a man, how large a man Castle is next to her. Clearly not the kind of man she has gone out with in the past.

"Back in the cab," he begins. "You were starting to tell me something. You asked me to believe you, to not let this afternoon . . . sour me to what you wanted to say. I interrupted, because I felt there was something I needed to share, to confess as well."

She nods her head, almost grateful that he is bringing this up, that he is fighting to get them back to a place where they might be able to move forward.

"What was it you were going to tell me?" he asks. She stares down at his large hands which hide her own. She notices how softly he is holding her hands, recognizing that while he wants her there, while he wants her to open up . . . he isn't holding on tight. If she needs to choose the flight option again, he will allow that. It makes her mind up for her.

It is months and months of internal conflict, months and months of discussions with Dr. Burke, months and months of vague overtures to her father. And his final question seals the deal for her.

"Kate, it's okay," he tells her. "What do you want? What is it that –"

"You," she replies suddenly. "I just want you, Castle."

He stops rubbing her hand with his thumb, and the expression in his eyes tells her that this is the last thing he expected to hear. She can't really blame him.

"Too much?" she asks. "I can always complicate it a-"

"No, no!" he offers, again a bit too loudly for the small contained space they take up in the diner. "It's just . . . I . . ."

"Rick? If you're trying to pay me back for my reaction a year ago, then –"

"No, no!" he repeats, and he releases her hands, rubbing his own hands together for a few seconds. When he begins, his eyes are wet and glistening. Seeing the emotions in his eyes is too much for her, and within seconds, two sets of rain-filled eyes stare at one another at the table.

"Four years I've been right here," he begins, his voice soft and cracking with an emotion she has never seen or heard from this fun-loving writer. "Four years just waiting for you to open your eyes to see that I'm right here. And that I'm more than a partner. Every morning I bring you a cup of coffee just so I can see a smile on your face because . . ."

He pauses for a brief second to wipe away a tear that threatens to escape.

"Because I think you are the most remarkable, maddening, challenging, frustrating person I have ever met. Four years, I've wanted to heard words like that from you. I love you Kate. I've tried not to love you, and it doesn't work. I've tried to forget about you, but it doesn't work. And I want so bad, God knows, I want so bad to believe that after all of this, after a year of frustration I can't even begin to describe . . . I want to believe that it can be as simple as _'you want me'_ . . . I'm trying to wrap my head around this, Kate, I really am. I'm trying to believe this, I want to believe it can be this simple –"

"It can be, Rick," she interrupts. "It _is_ this simple. I don't have your words, I don't have your eloquence. So where you can speak a litany of wonder, with beautiful words I can't even dream of stringing together . . . I can only tell you that I want you, only you. That I love you."

And there it is – both of them have said the words now. Both question whether the other believes the words spoken. In the end, they can either accept this . . . or complicate the hell out of it.

He reaches his hand to hers, taking it in a quick smooth motion, and brings her hand to his lips. He places a soft kiss on her knuckles, then her fingers.

"I love you, too," he tells her. "But you know this already."

"Yes, I do," she admits, lowering her eyes again. "I'm just glad that you still do. After all this time, after what I have done, after –"

"It doesn't matter," he tells her.

"Yes, it does matter," she argues. "If we don't learn from this, if _I_ don't learn from this, then we will repeat this over again. And maybe the next time, we won't be so lucky."

"The next time?" he questions. Surely she doesn't believe they could survive this again.

"There _will_ be a next time, Castle," she explains, placing soft, reciprocating kiss on his fingers. "That's the problem. Oh, it won't necessarily be a lie. But I _will_ say something that I don't think through, or that you take the wrong way. You're going to say something or do something that offends me. Somewhere in the future, we are going find a way to muck this up again."

"Then we just have to forgive, and move on," he tells her.

"Just like that?" she asks.

"Just like that," he replies. "If this really is love we are talking about, the real honest to goodness kind of love . . . well, an author far better than me wrote about that kind of love," he smiles, and releases her hand. He places his hands on the table in front of him, picking up his glass of water. He takes a long drag of the clear liquid, and places the glass back on the table.

"He said – and I quote – 'love is patient, love is kind. It does not keep a record of wrongs. It rejoices in the truth.'"

He reaches for her hand, which she offers easily.

"I want you to be able to take that word, the word 'love', out of those sentences, and put my name in there. If you can get to the point where you can say that 'Castle is patient with me, he is kind with me, he doesn't keep a record of my wrongs, he rejoices in the truth with me' . . . if you can say those things, and if I can place your name in those sentences – well, that's a hell of a start, don't you think? That's the kind of love I'd hope you and I could build."

Her tears are falling freely now, and were they not holding hands, anyone offering a glance in the diner would swear that there was a heart-rending break-up occurring. In fact, it is exactly the opposite, as two people not used to straight talk, two people more used to innuendo and banter have decided to lay a much firmer foundation for their next steps.

"See," she tells him between sniffles. "All I can manage is 'I want you', and you have to go quoting the book of Corinthians."

They both smile now, and he squeezes her hand.

"Well, it's a good start. Seems you know some of that book by heart as well," he remarks. He hears the chime from her phone again. It's the fifth or sixth time he has heard it, since they were in the cab.

"Someone's trying awfully hard to get a hold of you," he tells her.

"Gates," she offers quickly. That's her ring and alert tone.

"Don't you want to know what she wants?" he asks.

"I already know what she wants," she replies quickly. "I left a perp in the interrogation room. Walked away from an investigation without any explanation."

"I'm sorry, Kate," he says apologetically. He knows how Captain Victoria Gates is with rules and policies and procedures. This won't be good. For either of them. He knows Gates has been looking for a reason to punch his ticket out of there, and he – they – have just given it to her. Kate allowing her feelings for him to override an investigation?

No, this won't be pretty.

"It is what it is, Rick," she tells him as she hits the CALL button, and he sees that she means it. She's ready to take, ready to face whatever comes from the ex-IA captain.

He glances down at his watch. They've been gone for a good two hours almost. Yeah, this won't be good at all. He hears the conversation begin.

"Hello, sir," Kate begins. "I'm sorry for the –"

She is cut off, and is none too pleased about it. Castle watches her face morph from frustrated to pensive.

"Beckett?" he asks in a whisper. But she shakes her head. No, this isn't good.

A minute later, he is really worried, as Kate's face turns from pensive to ashen, mixed with a portion of anger.

"Are you sure of this, sir? Absolutely certain?"

Okay, now he is really worried. He tries to interrupt again.

"Kate?" he asks, his voice still low, and now she turns her gaze to him, still listening but now there is something else there.

Fear?

"Kate?" he asks a third time, and she holds up one finger and mouths the words "Just a second, Rick." She nods her head once, and then a second time.

"Yes, sir . . . Yes, sir, I understand. We'll be right there."

She hangs up, and now he notices. Her hands are trembling. Yeah, fear it is.

"What's going on, Kate?"

"There was a botched robbery last night. Two men. One of them was shot at the scene of the crime. He had bled out in the living room trying to escape. The other got away."

"Okay, so what's the problem?" Castle asks. He doesn't mean to be insensitive, but hey, this is what they do. They investigate murders. They catch killers. Why is this one any different?

"The robbery was at Roy Montgomery's home. Evelyn was there. The girls were not. She got a shot off at one of the robbers as he fled. He didn't make it. The other attacked her, knocking the gun from her hands. She tried to fight the perp off, but he was too strong for her. Knocked her out. She's lucky to be alive. When she came to, she checked the house. That's when she found dead assailant number one, sprawled out in the foyer next to the front door. Number two got away.

"No honor among thieves," Castle muses to himself, out loud. Kate simply nods in agreement.

"She said he didn't take any cash, any money," Kate continues. "He wasn't looking for valuables. He was looking for old files of Roy's. And he got them."

"Files?" Castle repeats, nervously.

"Files," she confirms, the single word hanging over them both like the pending noose from the execution gallows.

Castle knows what she is thinking. There are no coincidences. Yeah, there are tons of burglaries in New York City every day. But how many robbers are casing the homes of deceased police officers – not looking for money, but looking for files. Files that a certain Mr. Smith probably now has in his possession. Unless those files were copies. Unless Roy had kept the originals somewhere.

"Damn," Castles whistles. Just when things were looking up for the writer and his detective.

"Always complicated," Kate says simply. She raises her hand to wave Betty over, while Castle begins to ease out of the booth from his side, leaving a hundred dollar bill on the table. Betty arrives as Castle extends his hand, helping Kate out of the booth. They both begin walking away.

"Sorry, Betty," Castle tells her. "Emergency – please give our order to someone else. Anyone. Your choice." He points at the c-note on the table. "That's yours. Thanks again."

Betty glances down, her eyes widening, as she picks up the green bill, a large smile now overtaking her face.

"Thank you!" she hollers toward the door, but they are gone.


	8. Chapter 8

**Forty-Seven: Chapter 8**

 **DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe.

 _ **Now late afternoon, Tuesday, March 27, 2012 – at the 12**_ _ **th**_ _ **Precinct**_

The mood in Captain Gate's now-crowded office is tense, with emotions raw and on edge. A robbery-slash-murder is nothing new for this team. But there is something more – much more – riding along the under-currents here. Something sinister.

Secrets.

Captain Gates is no idiot. She can sense that these people – _her_ people – are holding something back. Even Castle seems on the 'in', which angers and frustrates her all the more. She's supposed to be able to trust these people, and they are walking on eggshells, watching their words. She didn't pick any of these people. They are her team, yes, but they aren't _her_ team. She inherited them. And now – almost a year later - she feels like more an outsider than ever before.

Finally, she slams her hand on her desk – in an uncharacteristic burst of physical anger – and it has its desired effect, as eyes widen.

"Someone here is going to tell me what's going on," she explodes. "What is it that I don't know, what it is that you don't want me to know?"

She glares from face to face at each of the participants. Beckett, of course, holds her gaze. No surprise there, as does Esposito. Kevin Ryan shrinks after a few seconds, glancing over at his partner. Castle is staring at her . . . but he's not staring _at_ her. He's staring _through_ her. He's a million miles away right now.

" _Yeah, they are hiding something,"_ she fumes to herself once more. And she knows how to uncover secrets. She didn't spend years in Internal Affairs and learn nothing from the time there.

"Okay, if that's how it is going to be," she begins, "Detective Beckett. You're off the case. Your entire team. I'm giving it to Hodges –"

"Sir, you can't do –" Kate begins to argue, but is shot down immediately.

"The hell I can't," Gates yells, a little louder than she intended. "This is my precinct, and my team - a team I have trusted - is withholding information from me. I have a case where my predecessor's family has been attacked. I need a team working this I can trust."

She reaches over for her phone, and punches a button, calling Hodges. It's Castle who makes the move that all in the room want to make. He reaches across the desk and disconnects the call. Gates, who up to this point has been angry, morphs into beyond-pissed in a second.

"Mr. Castle, your services are no longer –"

"Captain Gates," he manages, his voice soft but firm. There is something in his eyes, something that – God help her – almost frightens Victoria Gates. She doesn't like what she is feeling one bit. She cannot allow this civilian in her precinct to upstage her, to ignore her policies, to actually feel he can hang up a phone conversation she is having.

"This is so, so much bigger than you can imagine," he tells her, allowing a bit of fury to seep through as he punches the words out.

"Castle!" Beckett begins, but he immediately cuts her off.

"No, Kate," he tells her. "No more secrets. No more lies . . . remember?"

She is seething now – but reluctantly understands. Now he has two women in this office ticked off at him. So be it.

"A few months after Detective Beckett here was shot, I received a phone call," he tells the group, but his eyes are focused on Captain Gates.

"The man identified himself as a Mr. Smith. For the longest time, I assumed that wasn't his real name. Now I have to wonder. Anyway, he shared a story with me. He told me that before he died, Captain Montgomery had sent a file to him. A paper file, not computer file," he adds, glancing at Detective Ryan. "He told me that the contents of this file could seriously damage the person who was behind Kate's shooting . . . and her mother's murder."

Castle stops here, his eyes fixed hard on Victoria Gates. He won't say another word until . . . yeah, there it is. He sees it in her eyes. She's just made the connection. She's just connected the dots that – for the past year – she didn't even realize were there. She asks the question, already suspecting the answer.

"How would Roy – Captain Montgomery – even have such files to share?" she asks, and the team can actually see the concern, the almost panic, painting the face of their boss.

"Because he knew who killed my mother," Kate quietly interjects.

Both Esposito and Ryan drop their heads. It confirms for Victoria Gates the notion that this is not news to either man. She glances at her medical examiner, and sees the same confirmation. A stunned Victoria Gates cannot prevent her face from showing her disappointment, her shock. She begins to speak, but Castle holds his hand up, holding her off. She surprises herself by allowing him to do so.

"Years ago – over a decade ago – a rookie cop named Montgomery was a part of a cover-up," Castle begins.

"Mobsters were being kidnapped for ransom," Esposito adds.

"Kidnapped by police officers," Kate continues. "Roy found out, as a rookie cop, and became a part of the kidnappings."

Captain Gates, who up to this point has been standing, now eases herself – backwards – into her chair, placing her elbows on the table in front of her, and her head in her hands. Yeah, this is bad. She's beginning to understand why this team – a team who loved Roy Montgomery – would sit on this.

"Someone – we don't know who – and you have to believe us Captain Gates, that is the million dollar question we have never been able to answer – someone found out. He forced the rogue cops to include him on their . . . on their –"

"Scam," Captain Gates says quietly, finishing the difficult-to-complete sentence for him.

"Yes, scam," Castle continues. "Some time later, Kate's mother, Johanna Beckett, found out. Somehow. We don't know how. And she was killed for it. She, and the entire legal team working with her. All murdered by a person in the shadows," Castles states, his words now taking on the familiar mystery lingo of which he is so fond. Kate Beckett picks now as the time to interject.

"My mother was murdered, and Captain Montgomery knew who did it," she begins, a mixture of sadness and fury in her voice, glowering in her misty eyes. She's trying not to cry, but she is so angry, so frustrated, and so fed up with this entire case that is not a case.

"He knew who did it, but couldn't do anything about it," she continues. "What we do know – what we learned last year – is that Captain Montgomery had been protecting me for all of these years. Keeping them away from me. And . . . and keeping me away from them. Now we know that the files he had on this 'someone' were sent to Castle's mystery man."

Richard Castle grimaces at her depiction of the events, and she quickly tries to minimize the hurt she has just inflicted.

"That's not what I meant, Castle," she begins. "I'm –"

"No apology necessary," Castle says softly. "Nothing you said is untrue." He then turns his attention back to Gates, and continues the conversation.

"Here's what we now know," he tells the group, still focusing his eyes on the Captain. "Roy had files on our person in the shadows, and those files had kept Kate safe for all these years. And he kept her from really ever getting close to them, even when curiosity got the better of her. But something changed last summer. A new lead popped up, and Kate and the team started digging, and whoever is behind all of this decided that – damaging information or not – it was time for Kate to go. Roy tried to intervene, and sacrificed himself in the process. Then, this 'Mr. Smith' contacts me and tells me that the information Roy had against these people was now in his possession, and he had put the agreement back in place. If nothing happens to Kate, then the information stays sealed. For some reason, whoever this is behind all of this accepted the deal again. But with a caveat."

"What caveat?" Esposito asks, his radar now buzzing. Things are starting to fall into place.

"Kate had to stay clear of the case," Castle answers. "She couldn't investigate it. Keeping her from investigating had been Roy's job. Last summer, he failed at it. Mr. Smith told me that this job – keeping Kate away from her mother's case – now fell to me. I had to make sure she stayed away from the case."

"So . . ." Gates begins, rubbing her temples. "Captain Montgomery was a part of a kidnapping ring gone bad, which caused the death of Kate's mother." She looks at Beckett and then apologizes.

"I don't mean to sound insensitive, Detective Beckett," she tells her.

"I understand, sir," Kate nods. She says nothing else. There is nothing else to say.

"Captain Montgomery knows who killed Kate's mother, but – for reasons not clear right now – does not tell anyone," she continues.

"If subsequent history is any indicator, Captain," Castle interrupts, "if he had come forward, he and his entire family would probably have been killed."

Gates considers this hypothesis for a moment, and then nods her head.

"Agreed," she says simply, then continues. "Montgomery does not come forward, but he does take steps to prevent this person – or persons – from touching Kate. He uses his authority as captain of the department to keep Detective Beckett away from her mother's case, and he also uses the files he possesses to blackmail these people."

"That's a strong term, Captain," Ryan interjects.

"Do you have a better, more accurate word for secretly and covertly using information to force someone to do – or not do – something, Detective?" she asks, and her glare in is full force now. Ryan quickly shakes his head side to side.

"Eventually, Detective Beckett gets close again – last summer – and they come for her," Gates continues, watching both Castle and Beckett nod in agreement.

"Montgomery intervenes, is killed, but . . . this is where it breaks down," she confesses.

"No sir," Castle tells her. "Roy is killed, but he sent the files he had to Mr. Smith. Mr. Smith then made the same deal to this people that Roy did, but he was too late. Kate had already been shot. But she recovered, thank God," he adds, smiling at Beckett, then continuing.

"Once recovered, she was safe again because the deal was back in place, only this time, instead of Roy holding the files, Smith was holding them. And instead of Roy keeping Kate away from the case . . . I was doing that."

"So someone breaking into Evelyn's house, looking for files, isn't some random hack job," Kate follows. "That's too much of a coincidence."

"I don't believe in coincidences," Gates muses aloud.

"Neither do I, sir," Kate agrees. "I believe whoever it is was looking for Roy's files, hoping to find them."

"That makes sense," Castle adds, "because they don't know Smith. They haven't been able to find Smith. So they went back to Roy's house. Looking for the information."

"There are two problems with this thinking, Mr. Castle," Gates instructs the team at large, although answering Castle directly.

"First, there is no value in whoever this is obtaining the files from Captain Montgomery's house if there is a second copy of the files with this Mr. Smith. Getting the information does them no good."

Esposito nods, as does Castle. That – indeed – is a hole in the argument.

"The second problem I have," Gates continues, "is one of time. The big question we should be asking ourselves is this. Why now? Why last night? Why wait almost a year before deciding to look for Roy's files, to look for the information Roy had?"

"Or . . ." Ryan interjects, his fingers rubbing his chin, "or perhaps they weren't looking for Roy's files."

"What else would they be looking for?" Esposito asks, but now it is Beckett who stands quickly, as the puzzle pieces now fall into place.

"They aren't looking for Roy's information," she tells the group. "They are looking for Mr. Smith!"


	9. Chapter 9

**Forty-Seven: Chapter 9**

 **DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe.

 _ **Two Days ago, Sunday, March 25, 2012 – at an apartment building in Lower Manhattan**_

Cole Maddox doesn't realize it, but he is smiling as his daydream takes him back to last summer. In his mind, he is back in the cemetery, more than a hundred yards out. He has Detective Kate Beckett in his sightline. She's stationary, giving a graveside eulogy, he imagines. He can't hear her words, nor does he need to, or care to. To him, she is simply a target. A job.

Yeah, she's a looker, but he's killed good-looking women before. No big deal. It's just a job. _She's_ just a job.

He is holding his breath and slowly releases it, and he watches her thrust backward in his scope. He smiles. It is a perfect shot. Right into the heart.

His smile slowly turns into a frown.

 _It was a perfect shot – right into the heart_.

By all rights, by any rights, Detective Kate Beckett should be dead. How the lucky woman managed to survive – and more than slightly tarnish his reputation as a trusted contractor – is still open to debate. But the facts are facts. The detective is still alive. And before he could finish the job, for some reason Bracken had called and pulled the plug. Given him the old cease and desist. Told him he didn't need to know the reason why.

And now, since that infamous phone call from the Senator, 'that bitch Beckett', as Maddox now refers to her, has been the itch he can't scratch. Every time he sees her – and yes, he makes it a point to check in on her from time to time – she is a reminder of his failure. His first failure with the Senator. The blotch on his perfect record.

The ringing chime on his burner phone – _his_ ring tone – startles Maddox out of his reverie. He answers quickly and without preamble.

"Maddox. What can I do for you, sir?"

"Actually, my friend, it's what I can do for you this time," replies Senator Bracken. "The 2016 election is four years away. That seems like a lifetime, I know, but it's time to put a few things into motion. And that means tying up a few loose ends. Tying them up now, before they unravel completely."

Cole Maddox can almost feel his heartbeat speeding up. He's a master at controlling his body, but this is too good to be true. Tying up loose ends has to mean that bitch Beckett. How appropriate, given his recent musings a minute ago.

"Who's the target?" Maddox asks, although he can already guess. The answer isn't what he expected.

"In due time, my friend," the Senator chuckles, knowing how much Maddox wants a rematch with the detective. "She's a leak that I cannot afford, true, but she can wait a little longer. For now, I think it's time we turned up our efforts to find the detective's protector."

"Why now?" Maddox asks.

"As I said," Bracken replies easily, "it's time to eliminate loose ends. Finding whoever has Montgomery's files is the priority for now."

"Okay, so what do you want me to do?" Maddox asks, glancing at his cleanly cut fingernails.

"Let's start with Roy's house," Bracken tells him. "Roy gave his files to someone. That's the only way our mystery man could have received them. He couldn't have gotten them from anyone else."

"What about the wife?" Maddox asks.

"Leave her be," Bracken tells him, surprising him. "I'm cleaning up old problems, not creating new ones. She doesn't know anything. If she did, we'd know. Roy wasn't stupid enough to bring his family into this. Just get in, and find out what you can. Roy gave them to someone he knew well. Someone influential."

"How do you know?" Maddox questions him. Bracken admits, it's a good question.

"Because anyone who took this file knows that I am the one pulling the strings, Mr. Maddox," Bracken replies. "Whoever this person is, he or she knows who they are dealing with, what I am capable of. Only someone already used to dealing with powerful people would accept that file."

Maddox nods his head into the phone. As usual, Bracken is probably right, and this makes sense.

"You think another politician?" he asks the Senator.

"No," comes the reply. "Another politician would have already tried to use that file against me. No, this is someone else. Probably another attorney, some big-wig lawyer."

"Another lawyer?" Maddox argues. "You really think –"

"Life does have its ironies, my friend," Bracken interrupts. "Find an old yearbook. His wedding album. Look for memory sticks, external drives. Places he would have stored digital photos. We're looking for someone from his past."

"How do you know . . ." Maddox lets the thought drop off.

"Know what?" Bracken asks.

"Nothing," Maddox replies. "It's too far-fetched to even consider -"

"There is no such thing," Bracken tells him. "Talk to me."

"Do you think he may have given the files to the writer?"

"Castle?" Bracken responds. "No. Truth be told, I considered that for a while. But Castle isn't the cloak and dagger type. I've watched him long enough. Not in his DNA to mastermind this. No, I think our mystery man has told us the truth. He has the files, and he has Castle working to keep Beckett away from us. No, we need to find the man behind the files."

"And what about Castle?" Maddox asks.

"Kate Beckett is a weed in my garden, Mr. Maddox. A weed that needs to be pulled up, destroyed. That time is coming very soon. And when the time comes to prune the detective," Bracken responds, "well . . . a car accident, a fire in the house . . . there are always ways to take two out at one time."

The phone goes dead. It is Bracken's typical goodbye, meaning there is no goodbye. When the conversation is over, the Senator simply hangs up.

Maddox considers the conversation and smiles. The ex-special forces man has been handling 'situations' for Senator William Bracken for five years now. Bracken is ex-military as well, and though the two men didn't serve together, Maddox's reputation – both during his military stint and his post-war mercenary days – came across the Senator's desk, so to speak.

Since then, Maddox has done more than two dozen jobs for the Senator. Some involve information retrieval, like this current upcoming mission. And others have required a more personal touch that utilizes Maddox's very unique skills.

He glances at his watch, putting thoughts of the detective out of his mind. The Senator is right. Her time will come, and he will get another shot at her. Literally. And round two will definitely go his way. Of that he has no doubt.

For now, a little breaking and entering job will suffice. He knows where Montgomery's family lives. He's been there enough times while Roy was still alive. Truth be told, he didn't like Roy Montgomery having to die. There was something about the man that he liked. A lot. Thinking of Montgomery forces him to consider 'him' - the only 'problem' he has in dealing with the detective.

He puts that thought out of the way as well. He'll deal with him if he has to. He only hopes that it never comes to that.


	10. Chapter 10

**Forty-Seven: Chapter 10**

 **DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe.

 _ **Today, Tuesday, March 27, 2012 – back at the 12**_ _ **th**_ _ **Precinct**_

"You think that our thieves were looking for Mr. Smith?" Gates asks her lead detective. "Why? And why now?"

"I don't have an answer for your timeline question," Kate replies. "But here is what we know. If Castle is right, and I have no reason to believe that he isn't, then there are two reasons I am even alive today. First, because . . . because Castle has kept me from my mother's case."

Her pause does not go unnoticed by the group, and Castle silently wonders if there really is any possibility at a relationship with this woman. Yeah, they've been through a lot together, but they have also withheld a lot from each other as well. And those withholdings are now coming to light, and neither is dealing well with them.

"Second," Kate continues, "I'm alive because the information that Roy had, that this Mr. Smith now apparently has, has not fallen into the hands of the people behind all of this. According to Castle, if they had the information they wanted then Smith would be dead, and likely so would I. I believe this to be true, also."

"So it follows, then," Castle begins, "that the way for them to find the information is to find the man who holds the information."

"But why now?" Esposito asks. "Captain is right. Almost a year goes by and we hear nothing, and now all of the sudden –"

"Dammit," Castle interrupts suddenly, drawing all eyes to him. "Man I cannot believe what an idiot I am," he comments as he comically smacks himself on the forehead.

"No problem man . . . I can. Kev?" Javier chuckles, trying to bring levity to the room.

"Ditto," Ryan smiles, and nervous laughter is heard throughout the captain's office. Except for Kate. She is eyeing Castle, who looks absolutely crestfallen.

"What is it, Rick?" she asks.

"What the Captain said. What Javier here just said. That almost a year goes by and we hear nothing from these people. That's wrong. Oh God, that's so wrong. I've been so stupid!"

"Rick, what is it?" Kate asks again, this time with a bit more force.

"A few months ago . . ." Castle begins, wiping his brow. "A few months ago, do you remember when Mayor Weldon was being framed for murder?"

Heads nod in the conference room, and Kevin Ryan speaks up. "You mentioned how the mayor told you that was all an attempt to discredit him."

"Yes," Castle replies. "But there was more to it than that. Far more. I'm just now putting together everything he said to me, everything Smith said to me. That whole scenario with the mayor was connected to the cover-up for Beckett's mother's murder."

Kate can't help but release an audible gasp. Suddenly, everywhere she turns, everything seems to touch her mother's case.

"Mayor Weldon was involved in my mother's –"

"No, no," Castle replies quickly. Bob was just another casualty of the on-going cover-up regarding your mother's murder. You have to understand how high this conspiracy – Johanna Beckett's murder - goes. Smith had told Bob this without actually telling him – and Bob just didn't put it together. Neither did I. Not until right now. I was so focused on . . . other things," he says, glancing at Beckett, who now blushes.

"I missed this completely," he continues, and the sadness is evident on his face. "Smith insinuated to me that someone – someone fairly high up – had decided that Bob wasn't going to play ball, and so his upward trajectory had reached its limit. That was the whole purpose of framing the Mayor. Bob had gubernatorial aspirations and Smith said the goal was to eliminate those opportunities. But, Smith also told me that whoever was behind this also did not want Bob out of office. In fact, they needed him in office. He was adamant about this, because Bob's influence as mayor is what was keeping me here at the 12th. Without Bob, you would have kicked me to the curb," he says, now looking at Captain Gates again. She merely nods her head.

It's uncomfortable, to say the least.

"Smith told me that with me here at the 12th, then Kate continues to stay away from the case. But if I am not here, then there is no one to keep Beckett from looking into the case again. They wanted me here. And that meant that – even discredited – Bob had to keep his job as mayor. They stopped short of taking him out of office. But his dreams of becoming governor were dead."

Like the Captain before him, Castle slams his fist on the table.

"Déjà vu," Esposito muses aloud.

"Smith tried to tell me this, but I just wasn't listening," Castle broods. Suddenly his face goes ashen, and he stands quickly, then sits just as quickly.

"Mr. Castle?" Gates wonders aloud.

"Castle?" Esposito adds.

"Rick?" Kate asks. "What's –"

"Whoever this is," Castle begins, but has to stop. His breath is catching and his forehead is flush, damp with nervous perspiration.

"Rick?" Kate asks again.

"Whoever this is," Castle continues, finding his breath, finally. "He or she is high up. Very high up. Very likely they hold an important political office."

"Where do you get that, bro?" Esposito asks.

"I'm just putting the pieces together, Espo," Castle replies. "Whoever is behind all of this was also behind killing Bob's future as a politician beyond being the mayor of New York City," Castle replies. "That means whoever has done this is higher than the mayor's position. Bob's glass ceiling and Kate's lifeline are linked. Whoever did this kept him out of the governor's office. So it follows that this person is probably higher than the governor's office. Or in a tertiary branch. That means we are talking about a congressman. Or a senator. Someone in a cabinet position. Maybe someone high up in the FBI or NSA. Or the CIA."

It scares Castle that someone potentially in the political realm is playing such a deadly and ruthless game of cat and mouse. And Kate is the mouse. It goes far beyond anything even he would dream up for one of his books.

"But the CIA can't get involved in domestic affairs," Gates states, thinking out loud.

"Yeah right," Ryan laughs, and Castle nods in agreement, his author's imagination now kicking into full overdrive. He glances over at Kate, who's already-normally pale complexion has matched Castle's blood-drained look. This can't be easy for her. A robbery gone bad, a blackmailing gone awry. Yeah, she can deal with those. But potentially a deadly politician – one of our elected officials – the very idea of someone in one of those positions being involved, much less the mastermind . . . well, all too often powerful politicians are among the blessed untouchables of the country.

He knows where her mind is going now, and he can't find a single word to encourage her otherwise.

"Captain Gates?" officer Raul Garza says as he knocks on the door to the captain's office, interrupting the discussion.

"You said you wanted to know when Mrs. Montgomery arrived," he continues. "She's here, sir."

"Evelyn's here?" Kate asks aloud.

"Yes, thank you, Officer Garza," Gates responds, nodding at Kate. "Show her in."

A few seconds later, Evelyn Montgomery walks into the room.

"Evelyn," Kate says with affection, her arms wrapping Roy Montgomery's widow in a soft embrace before she can even think about it.

"Kate," Evelyn replies warmly. "It's been too long," as she returns the hug with one arm, her other hand holding on to a box she has brought with her.

"I'm sorry, I know I should have –"

"Don't apologize, Kate," Evelyn tells her. "The girls and I have been busy staying busy. We know you have a lot on your plate."

"I'm sorry that your home was broken into," Kate continues. "I'm just glad the girls weren't there . . ."

Kate pauses, now seeing – for the first time – the bruises on the side of Evelyn Montgomery's face. She touches the woman's face with her fingers, softly and gently.

"Oh Evelyn, I'm so sorry," Kate tells her.

"Like you said, Kate," Evelyn counters. "I'm just glad the girls weren't there either."

"You didn't get a good look at either of them?" Castle asks, interrupting the reunion.

"Well, the dead one, yeah," Evelyn replies, and nervous laughter is heard in the captain's office. It's just their way of letting off a little steam.

"The other was just too fast," she tells the team. "I did get a scratch on him, though," she adds. "Lanie is already working on testing skin she retrieved from underneath my fingernails. Told me she should have something by tonight."

Evelyn turns to Captain Gates, now extending the box under her arm toward the captain.

"I can't be sure yet what else was taken, but this wedding album was opened and you can see that one picture is missing," she tells Gates, opening the wedding album to the affected page.

"What picture was here?" Kate asks, pointing at the blank spot on the page.

"I wish I could tell you, Kate," Evelyn replies. "I haven't looked at this . . . in a few months. I looked at it quite a few times after Roy . . ."

Her voice tails off, and Esposito puts a supportive hand on her shoulder.

". . . but not in the past few months," she concludes.

"No worries, Evelyn," Gates tells her. "I know this was taken a long time ago, but you wouldn't possibly know where the negatives are, would you?"

"I can do better than that," Evelyn replies, now reaching into her purse. She retrieves an old envelope, the kind photographers used to use to store negatives in after pictures were developed. "Once I noticed a picture was missing, I searched for the envelope Jerry stored the negatives in."

"Jerry?" Castle asks.

"He was the photographer for our wedding," Evelyn continues. "Old high school friend of mine who started his own photography company."

Castle nods as Captain Gates searches through the negatives, lifting them toward the light to see them better. She compares the negatives with the photos in the book until she finds the right one. The missing picture. She punches a button on her phone, and within seconds Raul Garza reappears.

"Yes, captain?" he says, sticking his head in the office once again.

"Please take these down to the lab, or outside to a film developing company, but I need this string of negatives developed within the next hour or two. As soon as possible," she tells the man who is already out the door.

"I suggest that we all take a break for now," Gates tells her assembled team. Once we have something tangible from Ms. Parish, and once we can take a look at the picture that was stolen from the Montgomery house . . . well, until then anything we offer up is pure conjecture."

All agree and head to the door, when Captain Gates looks toward Kate with a request.

"Detective Beckett. A moment, please," Gates tells her.

"Sure thing, sir," Kate replies, then looks toward Castle who is leaving the office.

"Rick, I'll just be a few minutes," she says, glancing back at Gates for confirmation.

"Not even that," Gates confirms, but Castle is already moving away.

"I . . . I have a couple of things to do," he tells the two women. "I need to check on something."

With that, he's gone, walking away from the desk, toward the elevator to make his way out of the precinct building. Kate idly wonders what's on his mind, but is quickly brought back to the present moment by Gates.

"I need your honest, professional answer, Detective," Gates begins. "No posturing or grandstanding. Can you work this case? I need to know now, because if you can't, believe me I would not think less of you. But we cannot afford a –"

"I'm good, sir," Kate tells her, her eyes even with the Captain's, her voice strong and firm. "You need me on this, and I need to be on this. I'm good."

Gates considers her for a few seconds, then gives her lead detective a small smile, then turns from her, putting her focus now on papers sitting atop her desk.

"Glad to hear it," Gates tells her. "I will pull everyone back in once we have something firm to discuss."


	11. Chapter 11

**Forty-Seven: Chapter 11**

 **DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe.

A/N: I'm posting these as I can. Spending time in Dad's hospital room, stepping out to post a few more. I will get the first 18 up tonight, hopefully. Story is not finished – but on the road.

 _ **Tuesday, March 27, 2012 – Now 5:50 p.m. at the Mayor's Office**_

"Sorry for the delay. The Mayor will see you now, Rick."

"No problem Janice," Richard Castle replies affably, picking his large frame up off the plush chair in the mayor's waiting room. Castle has been sitting here for about thirty-five minutes, waiting for Bob Weldon to finish a previous engagement. This is an impromptu visit, so Castle wasn't expecting to be ushered right in.

He's spent the time reflecting on the unexpected rollercoaster ride that today has become. Less than five hours ago, he was standing in the viewing room, watching his favorite detective do what she does so well . . . interrogate and break down a perp. He watched with an illogical pride as she peeled away layer after layer, stripping the poor guy's story to the bare bone. Just another day in the box.

Only, it wasn't.

Pride turned to horror and anger as she unknowingly laid open a secret she had kept for so long. Anger turned to frustration as she confronted him in the cemetery, next to her mother's grave. Frustration gave way to an unrealistic hope as he heard the three critical words she uttered leaving the gravesite, unaware that he had heard. And finally unrealistic hope transformed back into frustration (and let's face it, a strong case of trepidation and fear) as he now considers this new journey that faces all of them: Beckett, Espo and Ryan, Gates, Alexis, Martha – and of course, he himself.

Somehow – for some still unknown reason – the deal that was keeping Kate Beckett standing and healthy has been pulled off the table. He can feel it. He knows with certainty that whoever was behind the break-in at Roy Montgomery's family home is connected to Kate's mother's murder. And whoever is behind this – so far – hasn't concerned themselves with collateral damage. So yeah, even though Kate's the target, they all are in danger, because they all are a part of the circle that intersects with Detective Kate Beckett.

He's here for some answers. Bob Weldon, the mayor of New York City, knows more than he has shared with Castle. And today is a day for destroying all secrets, pulling everything out of the dark and into the light.

"Bob," Castles greets his old friend as he walks into the mayor's private office. The two men shake hands and then pull one another into a hug. A slap on the back follows as they separate, and Castle takes the chair in front of his friend's massive desk. Rather than take his chair in the position of authority, Weldon pulls up the second chair in front of the desk and sits aside his friend.

"So, what can I do for you, Rick?" he asks him. "Janice said you indicated it was quite urgent." Tired lines under the eyes stand out on the handsome man's dark face. Yeah, this job can be a pill, to say the least.

"I wish this were a nice social call, Bob," Castle begins, "but it isn't. I need your help. I need your help desperately."

Weldon cannot help but raise his eyes and sit back a bit. In all the years they have known each other, Richard Castle has never asked for a 'desperate' favor. The two play cards, make bets, share drinks, and probably the most serious thing Castle has asked for was inclusion into the 12th. But even then, Castle was his normal, scheming and charming self. Today, however, it is clear that Castle is a desperate man asking for a desperate favor.

"Okaaaay," Weldon comments. "This is new."

"Just promise me one thing, Bob," Castle continues. "I need the truth. I warn you now, and I hate to take this stance, but . . . well, it's just that important. If you don't tell me the truth, you and I are done. And by done, I mean I leave the city, I leave the 12th, you and I are done. I can't take any more lies today. Fair enough?"

"Any more lies? I haven't lied to you, Rick," a confused and slightly put off mayor replies, regaining his bearings. "Never."

"I know, Bob . . . let's keep it that way," Castle replies, knowing that he is taking out his frustrations with Beckett on his good friend. "I have a question, my friend. It's a tough one. So think about it, don't answer right away."

Call it politician's intuition, or just call it waiting for the shoe to drop for so long that it's a relief when it finally happens, but Mayor Bob Weldon is no idiot. He senses where this conversion is going, and what question is coming. He actually smiles, which brings a matching smile to Castle's face, relaxing him into this difficult discussion.

"A few months ago, you were being framed," Castle begins, and notices his friend take a deep breath. He realizes that Weldon has been waiting for this conversation.

"Someone very powerful decided you weren't going to be governor. Ever. But they also made sure that you stayed mayor."

Castle pauses here for a moment, wondering how much to say. The mayor – again, no idiot – senses this.

"If you want full disclosure from me, Rick," Weldon states firmly, his eyes now boring directly into those of his friend, "then give me the respect of reciprocity."

"Fair enough," Castle chuckles, nodding his head.

"There is a man – name of Smith. At least that's what he told me his name was," Castle tells him. "He told me that your suspicions about being framed were correct. You were right. He also said that the people who were framing you definitely wanted you to stay in office as mayor . . . because you being mayor kept me at the 12th. You leave the mayor's office, the captain over at the 12th kicks me out."

Weldon doesn't say a word, but a few seconds later his simply nods his head.

"This means the people who framed you are the same people who want me keeping Detective Beckett away from her mother's case."

Again, Weldon is quiet, but a nod of his head confirms Castle's train of thought.

"Which means," Castle continues, "that the person or persons who killed Laura Cambridge. . ."

"Is also the person who is responsible for Johanna Beckett's death," Mayor Weldon finishes, completing the sentence.

Castle stands, taking quick deep breaths as he begins pacing the inner office. His head is swimming now, deep under the waters. It feels like drowning. He can't catch his breath, he can't focus. Finally, after a couple of paces, he manages to sit down on a small loveseat near the window. The mayor stands next to him with a small tumbler of scotch.

"Take this," he tells his long-time friend. "You're going to need it."

Castle looks up at the small glass and manages a weak smile. "That bad, eh?"

The mayor doesn't respond. He simply gives Castle the glass and then turns away, walking a few steps to the window and staring out over the city he loves.

"Rick . . . Rick, I can't . . . I couldn't . . . Damn it all."

He turns to face his friend who sits on the small couch, staring at the glass in his hands. He's yet to even take a swallow. Weldon nods his head. He knew it would come to this at some point. And none of this is even his fault. Well, scratch that. He knows that if he had never given the okay for Richard Castle to be included in the 12th Precinct in the first place a few years ago, things would be different.

He'd still be mayor – check.

His plans for a run at the governor's office would still be in place – check.

His long-time, whispered ambitions for the Presidency would still be viable – check.

His long-time friend and novelist – Richard Castle – would be off writing a new series somewhere, still his poker buddy, still his close friend – check.

Detective Kate Beckett would be deader than a doornail.

Yeah, check on that one also.

"I don't understand," Castle finally begins, as he takes a long swallow of the clear liquid, allowing the burn to soothe his nerves – just a bit – on the way down.

"I will give you the cliff notes version, Rick," Weldon says with a chuckle, "since I don't have the eloquence of words that you do."

"Pleeeease," Castle chuckles himself, mockingly. If there is anyone who is as good with words as Castle is, it's his friend the mayor.

"There is someone – very powerful – in our political system. I don't know his or her name. All I have figured out is that they are a politician – on the national scene, not local. That person provided information to Norris – months ago – to frame me. When it became clear that Laura Cambridge was close to the truth – a truth that would have exonerated me from both embezzlement rumors – then she was killed. On the orders of this unknown powerful politician. And whoever is behind this attempted to point Laura's murder back at me."

Castle begins to speak, but the mayor holds up his hand, quieting him.

"Better if you hear the entire story before asking questions," Weldon tells him, and then continues.

"The entire reason for wanting to frame me for embezzlement wasn't to get me out of office, but to put enough dirt and doubt about my integrity to kill any chances of future offices I wanted to run for. Period."

He pauses, allowing this information to soak in, allowing Castle to get his head around this. Then he repeats himself.

"I will say it again," Weldon repeats. "The whole reason for wanting embezzlement charges associated with me was to kill my political future. New Yorkers – in the sense of the citizens of New York City – are not spooked by a little mud here and there. They know it is big engine politics in the big city."

Castle nods, knowing exactly what his friend is talking about.

"New Yorkers – in the sense of citizens throughout the entire state of New York, however, - well, that's a different question all together. When it comes to a city election, a good politician can overcome a few rumors and innuendo. When it comes to a state election, well, not so easily," Weldon tells him. He walks over and pours a drink for himself now, and returns to Castle, joining him by sitting on the arm of the small loveseat next to his friend. He takes a long pull from the drink, he, too, enjoying the soft burn.

"They never intended for you to be found guilty of embezzlement," Castle realizes.

"No," Weldon confirms. "Just wanted the word associated with me, tainting me for future endeavors."

"Then why kill Laura Cambridge?" Castle asks.

"That's the part that confuses me," Weldon tells him. "Someone wants me tarnished. Why kill the keeper of the evidence that tarnishes me. Remember, Rick, when you and the detective showed up at my office during that investigation. She asked for my coat, to test it."

"You refused," Castle recalls. "I never understood that. Neither did –"

"I tried to tell you then, Rick, but neither of you were listening," Weldon tells him. "Oh, you heard what I said, but you didn't listen," he recalls, and Castle notes the sadness in the mayor's eyes, only adding to his guilt.

"I tried to tell you both. In a matter of forty eight hours, I am being framed for embezzlement and accused of murder. That's a stretch even by your writing standards, Rick!" the mayor tells him, allowing the ironic truth of his words to settle over both men.

"If I was being framed for embezzlement . . . well, okay. I'm a politician. I'm a big boy, I can handle that. Or if someone was accusing me of murder . . . well, again, I know I'm innocent, I can fight that without losing my career," Weldon says softly. "But both? Both, Rick? In two days, I turn from respected mayor with a future to a suspected embezzler _and_ a murderer? In two days? No, Rick, I knew I was being set up. And I tried to tell you and Beckett then, just the mere fact that you both were there having that conversation with me meant that things were already in motion."

The two men are quiet for a moment. One minute turns into two. Two minutes turn into five. It is a comfortable silence, as the two long-time friends are well acquainted with these extended moments of quiet, allowing each to think and process.

Finally, it is Castle who breaks the silence.

"This is why I wanted to come here, in person," Castle tells him, putting his empty glass down.

"Refill?" the mayor asks.

"Sure," Castle smiles weakly, picking up his glass and offering it to his friend. Weldon moves toward the bar area, and Castle stands and follows. Half a minute later, both glasses are refreshed, and the two men stay – stationary – at the bar table when Castle continues.

"I think you have it partially figured out, Bob," Castle tells him, and the mayor sees an uncharacteristic fury swelling behind his friends eyes. The tenseness in his jawline, the furrow of the brow.

"I have a feeling I'm not going to like this," Weldon muses aloud.

"I know I sure as hell don't," Castle seethes. "This is twice today that I realize I've been played."

"How so?"

"Later on the first one," Castle says quickly, brushing thoughts of Kate Beckett's betrayal away. "I'm talking about my infamous Mr. Smith."

"Again . . . how so?" the mayor asks.

"You said that someone wanted to frame you – not to end your political career, but to make sure your political journey goes no farther than New York City."

"Yes," the mayor replies, succinctly. He has learned to trust the imaginative instincts of one Richard Castle.

"You are making the assumption – and I can see why, on the surface – that this person who wanted to keep you in New York is also the person who killed Beckett's mother."

"Yes," is the only reply, once again.

"And that this person also killed Laura Cambridge."

"Yes."

Castle begins to pace the room again, and Weldon knows his friend well enough to let alone, to let him work this out.

"Meanwhile," Castle continues after a few laps around the room, "at the same time this is happening, my Mr. Smith picks this time – after months of no contact, to reach out to me during that time and tells me that if I want to prove your innocence, I should listen to the evidence."

"Listen?"

"Exactly!" Castle says, now extending his forefinger into the chest of his friend, pointedly. "See, Bob, _that's_ what I should have caught before, months ago when he spoke with me. Smith didn't tell me to _follow_ the evidence. He told me to _listen_ to the evidence. To _listen_ to what Laura was listening to."

"The taped conversation," Weldon nods.

"But how, Bob? How would my Mr. Smith _even know_ that there was a taped conversation? How would he have even known about what Laura was following unless . . ."

He lets the thought hang out there in the room for one . . . two . . . three . . . then it lands.

"Unless Smith was the one behind it in the first place," Weldon gasps, now understanding the anger in his friend.

"Exactly," Castle spits. Twice now, today, he has realized that someone has played him for a fool. Okay, perhaps that wasn't Kate's intent. But the result is the same. And now he suspects that his confidante, Mr. Smith, has been doing exactly the same thing.

"Instead of putting all of this at the feet of whoever killed Johanna Beckett, let me give you another scenario," Castle begins, his writer's mind now moving plot lines around on the virtual board that is his brain. "One that makes a lot more sense to me."

" _Think like a writer, not a cop,"_ Castle has told himself many times in the past few years during his tenure with Kate Beckett and the cops of the 12th. _"They're the cops, they think one way. My value is thinking a different way, giving a different perspective."_

"See, Bob," Castle continues, 'if I were writing this story, here is how it would go. I agree that it's probably some national figure on the political scene who was behind Kate's mother's death. I will share why I believe that in a bit. Regardless, now that I know that much, I can start to piece together who that person might be. Who is on the national scene now that was here on the local scene all those years ago? I can figure that one out," Castle smiles, now, as for the first time in his four years with the 12th, he is confident he can get to the bottom of that one. Castle claps his hands excitedly. Yeah, this is coming together now.

"But I have the one luxury you don't have," Castle continues, "and that's the luxury of a certain Mr. Smith. He's the wildcard. He's the one who told me that – with Roy gone – I was now the one tasked with keeping Beckett away from her mother's case. He's the one who told me that I was now tasked with keeping her alive. He's the one who told me this was a favor to Roy, a debt to Roy that he was fulfilling. He doesn't give a shit about Beckett's welfare. This is all a favor to Roy. He must owe Roy bigtime for something."

"Okay," Weldon agrees. "Where are you going with this, Rick?"

"Six, seven months ago you dropped a hint in one of your little speeches down at the Waldorf," Castle reminds him. Weldon picks up on this immediately.

"That was intentional," he admits. "We wanted to use that women's event to drop the idea of me running for governor," he recalls, and Castle can see both fondness and sadness in his eyes.

"A couple of months later, you are being investigated by the NYPD," Castle tells him, and he stops there. He will let his friend start to piece this together. Seconds later, the mayor does just that.

"I drop a hint at running for governor, and soon after, my reputation and my career are tarnished," Weldon states brusquely. "We've already determined this, Rick. We've already –"

"No, Bob," Castle argues. "What we've determined is the _what_. What we haven't determined is the _why_. And – in writing, when I am laying out a plotline – the first step in establishing a _why_ is to make sure you have someone who benefits from the _what_."

"Geesh, Rick, can you talk in more circles?" Weldon erupts now, frustration boiling over. Castle can't blame him. It was his career, after all, that was disrupted.

"Bob," Castle states calmly, placing both of his large hands on the equally large frame of his friend. His hands resting on the mayor's shoulders, Castle finishes the chapter for him.

"Who benefits from you not running for governor?" Castle asks. "More to the point, who benefits from you staying as mayor of New York? Certainly not some national politician trying to hide something he or she did over a decade ago. That person couldn't possibly see the mayor of New York as a potential threat. No, the beneficiary of you staying mayor is someone more local to the scene."

"Smith?" Weldon exclaims, and then with a second thought, it is no longer a question, but a realization.

"Smith," Weldon states softly.

"He owes Roy a favor, and that is to keep Beckett safe," Castle continues. "Keeping her safe means I have to stay working at the 12th. The only way I stay at the 12th is if you are still mayor. The person behind the embezzlement charges simply wanted to keep you as mayor, not allow you to become governor. Because the new mayor would not have a personal friendship with me . . ."

"And you'd been out of the 12th in minutes," Weldon agrees.

"And the one person who finds that scenario unacceptable is my Mr. Smith," Castle concludes. "All this time I thought Smith intervened to help you, to keep you in office . . . when in fact, Smith was the one who set the entire story into motion. He was the one who organized the initial frame-up."

Suddenly Castle gasps, making a motion to cover his mouth. The final shoe of discovery has finally dropped.

"And Smith was behind Laura Cambridge's murder."

For another few seconds, both men remain silent, each pondering what-if's, what-could-have-been's.

"So all of this – all of my troubles –"

"Stem from your dropping gubernatorial hints," Castle states, "that Smith took as an eventual possibility of me being kicked out of the 12th.

"And with you gone, then Beckett eventually starts probing again," Weldon continues himself, now feeling this, now understanding and believing this.

"And that frees them to take her out," Castle continues.

"And frees them to take him out," Weldon muses aloud.

"Smith," Castle agrees. "See, Bob, I just had to think the bigger picture through, and that is that the person who had Beckett's mother killed also wants Beckett killed."

"And they tried to take her out last summer," Weldon adds, now fully warming to the direction.

"And the only reason they haven't tried again is because this Mr. Smith has information damaging to them," Castle reflects. "Information that he will release if they hurt Beckett. But the deal, the caveat is that Beckett cannot interfere with the investigation of her mother's murder. She has to drop it. And I am there to make sure she does. And they don't know who this Mr. Smith is in the first place. He's just a faceless connection to them."

"But," Mayor Weldon considers out loud, "if I am this national figure who is behind all of Beckett's problems, I can't let this deal with Beckett stay in place forever."

"As long as she is alive, she is a potential bombshell exploding at the wrong moment," Castle agrees.

"So at some point, I'm going to want to take her out," Weldon adds.

"And there are two ways to clear the road to do that," Castle adds. "One is to get me out of the way, get me out of the 12th."

"And according to you, this Mr. Smith is willing to do virtually anything to make sure that doesn't happen, including ruining me – ruining my career," the mayor muses aloud, taking a long drag on his drink. "Me gone means you are gone, which means eventually she steps in the mud again."

"And the second way," Castle continues, now standing at the window, looking over the city. "The second way is to eliminate Smith."

"Hmmm," Weldon thinks out loud.

"And that's what I believe is happening now," Castle adds, realizing that Weldon isn't aware of the break-in to Montgomery's old home. "Yesterday, someone broke into Roy's home."

"Seriously?" Weldon exclaims. "Evelyn and –"

"Evelyn and the girls are fine," Castle quickly adds. "The girls weren't there, but Evelyn was. She shot and killed one of the intruders, but the other knocked her out and got away."

"Knocked her out? Didn't kill her?" the mayor asks, surprised.

"I was surprised also," Castle admits. "She's lucky as hell, for sure. But they did take something – at least one thing that she has noticed. A photograph."

"A photo?" Weldon asks, once again with surprise.

"Yeah," Castle answers. "If these are the people behind Beckett's murder –"

"You think they aren't?" Weldon asks, skeptically.

"No, no, I'm almost certain they are," Castle replies quickly. "That would be a huge coincidence."

"No such thing," Weldon responds.

"Agree," Castle states, now pacing the room once again. "It's the same people, let's assume that. I would have thought they'd be looking for the files that Roy has that he shared with Smith."

"It would make sense that Roy kept a copy," Weldon agrees.

"Or the originals themselves," Castle adds.

"But . . . that's a lot of time to let go by before searching Roy's house," Weldon comments.

"I agree," Castle replies quickly. "That's why I think they've been in Roy's house before. Evelyn just doesn't realize it. And the best time for someone to discreetly and secretly look through Roy's house for incriminating evidence was –"

"During his funeral," Weldon completes the sentence, nodding his head. "They would have had a good couple of hours to go through the house without leaving evidence, without leaving so much as a fingerprint."

"The reason they were in Roy's house this time wasn't to find the evidence, but instead to find the identity of the man who holds the evidence," Castle tells him.

"Smith," Weldon states.

"Smith," Castle agrees. "Smith wasn't an issue the first time they probably were in her house, because he hadn't made any deal with them at that point. He was clear on that when he first spoke to me last fall. Beckett was shot before he could contact them and make the deal."

Castle walks back to the window, glancing outside and suppressing a shiver. Now for the harder part.

"If I'm right," Castle begins, "and I have no reason to think I am not right . . . then you're in danger, Bob."

"Okay, you lost me there," his friend tells him.

"Think about it," Castle continues. "If they are searching Roy's house for the identity of Mr. Smith, then for whatever reason, something has happened to change the game. They are no longer satisfied with the status quo. They are looking to shake things up. If they find Mr. Smith, then they can either take the files, or just kill him. If he's dead, he can't hurt them."

"How does that put me in danger?" Weldon asks.

"You're not listening, Bob," Castle almost whines in frustration. "Something has changed. They are no longer satisfied with the status quo. They want Beckett, and one of the ways to get to Beckett is to eliminate Smith, or at least neutralize what he knows, what he has. Another way, Bob, however, is to eliminate the man who is actually keeping Beckett safe."

"You?" Weldon asks.

"No, Bob. _You._ If they eliminate you, then by extension they eliminate me. If you're no longer mayor, I'm not here. You making gubernatorial plans was actually good news to those people. It moves you on. But that's no longer an option. But the equation remains. Eliminate you, and they eliminate me from the 12th, which frees Kate to pry again. Smith becomes a non-issue at that point. He probably goes deep into hiding if he sees you eliminated, his promise to Roy be damned."

Weldon considers the words – and logic – of his friend. Perhaps it is a bit far-fetched, like his writer's mind. But he recalls a conversation with his author friend over a poker game years ago when Castle confessed that his plots, his stories really are extensions of real life.

"And by eliminate," Weldon says aloud, "you mean murder."

"That's how I would write it, Bob," Castle tells him, and the room falls silent once more.


	12. Chapter 12

**Forty-Seven: Chapter 12**

 **DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe.

 _ **Tuesday, March 27, 2012 – Now 7:00 p.m. back at the 12**_ _ **th**_ _ **Precinct**_

The clear spring day is starting to give way to the evening, yet the group sitting in the bullpen at the 12th Precinct shows no sign of packing it in for the day. It's been a long day, for certain. The bomber in the plaza case has been caught, but there have been no celebrations, no high fives, nothing of the sort.

Instead, for the majority of the people here – Captain Gates, Detectives Beckett, Esposito and Ryan – today's victory has been tempered by the realization that far more nefarious forces than those that raised their heads in the plaza bombing are climbing from behind their rocks again. And every time these people have reared their heads in the past, a deadly carnage has followed.

For Kate Beckett, however, it is not only her mother's case that – once again – has reared its head. No, that should be enough in itself, but it is compounded by her now completely undefinable relationship with Richard Castle.

On one hand, she considers them estranged. They are distant, they are reluctant, and they are tentative.

On the other hand, they share an intimacy they have never had. Hands held, words spoken, a closeness held fast to.

It is a dichotomy, an irony that leaves her empty, yet hopeful.

In the silence that sits atop the atmosphere in the bullpen, she hears the elevator ding, and seconds later the man in question himself walks through the doors. When he left, he looked pensive and concerned. Now, as he walks back? If anything, those feelings have intensified.

She can't help but smile as she sees the two cups of coffee in his hands . . . yes, at seven o'clock at night. He doesn't say a word as he offers one to her. She hopes that he sees and understands her unsaid feelings with the smile she gives him.

"Thanks, Castle," she manages through the smile.

He simply nods his head, and gazes at the others sitting in the bullpen with her as he drops into his designated chair. No one has said anything, so that means Lanie hasn't come back with anything. Otherwise he'd have known. Someone would have called, or texted. But more than anything else, everyone here – including Captain Gates who is curiously sitting, legs crossed atop a desk with her team, instead of in her office – everyone here has that "what is taking so long for the results' look plastered on their faces.

A minute passes before Kate finally breaks the silence.

"Where'd you go, Castle?" she asks. All heads turn to the novelist in the room.

"I went to have a talk with Bob," he replies, staring down at his feet as he sits cross-legged in the chair.

"Bob . . . our mayor Bob?" she asks.

"Yep," he says with a slight nod, and a single-word reply.

Okay, so he isn't in a talkative mood. That's a problem. Because no matter what, no matter if someone has died, this man talks. Sitting in a freezer, dying, this man talks. Walking into an apartment blown to bits wondering if she were alive, this man talks. His silence screams louder than any words ever could.

"Okay, Castle," Esposito chimes in. "What gives? This isn't you."

Castle manages a grim smile, one that actually sends a series of shudders down Kate Beckett's spine. His next words put an extra tingle in those shudders.

"Have you ever had one of those epiphanies, where you begin to see things clearly for the first time?" Castle begins, causing Kate to frown. "One of those life-altering moments where you realize that everything you believed was backwards. Everything you thought was true was simply a mirage?"

The blank stares that follow would normally send a few chuckles through Castle. But not today . . . not tonight.

"Long story short, Bob and I put a few things together," Castle continues after a few seconds. "Remember a few months ago how he was framed – for both embezzlement and murder," he reminds them, as heads nod quickly. The guilt that crosses the features of both Kate and their captain cannot be hidden.

"All this time, I thought that Mr. Smith – the gentleman I told you about earlier – all this time I thought that he was the one who intervened and saved the mayor – for his own selfish purposes of course. Today, however, Bob and I put the pieces together – finally – and now I realize that Mr. Smith wasn't the one who stepped in and saved Bob . . . Smith is the one who put Bob's problems in motion in the first place."

Widening eyes greet this news, and Gates is the first to speak up.

"That's . . . that's an interesting theory, Mr. Castle," she says. "Where is your evidence?"

"More of a gut feel," he replies with a weak smile. "I just realized that Smith knew things, said things to me that he could not have possibly known . . . unless he were somehow in on the frame-up." He tells them about his conversation with Smith in the garage all those months ago, where Smith told him to listen to the evidence – not to follow the evidence – but to listen to the evidence.

Meaning, he already knew about the audio taped conversation that eventually cost poor Laura Cambridge her life. But he should not have known about it, unless he were behind the whole scenario.

Before he can finish, the elevator dings again, and all heads whip toward the offending sound in unison. The door opens and Lanie Parrish walks slowly toward the team. The expression on her face pounds an immediate sense of dread into the people in the bullpen.

"This doesn't look good," Esposito comments under his breath.

Kevin Ryan laughs. "Is that your professional opinion or the opinion of one who has –"

"It's so important you don't finish that sentence, bro," Esposito interrupts. It's their typical funny bantering, but tonight – as the medical examiner approaches – well, nothing is funny tonight.

"Lanie?" Beckett asks softly.

Lanie looks her good friend sharply in the eyes, her gaze not wavering. Yeah, she is giving this update to the entire team. But this information belongs to Kate.

"I ran the DNA we found under Evelyn's fingertips," she begins. "There were no matches in our criminal database, no matches in the federal databases."

"So it's a newbie," Esposito postulates.

"Not exactly, Javi," she replies softly, only now taking her gaze away from Beckett to land on her on-again and off-again lover. It's only for a second or two, and then her eyes return to Kate.

"There was one match, however," she continues. "It matched an unsolved case here in New York . . . here in this precinct."

The hairs on Castles neck literally feel like they are standing at attention. Captain Gates uncrosses her legs and stands now, brushing the lint off of her skirt. She, too, has a feeling where this is going. She hopes she is wrong. The universe couldn't be this cruel.

"It matched a case from last summer," Lanie finally tells the team, still looking firmly at her friend's eyes.

"I'm so sorry Kate. The DNA matches that of the shooter last summer. In the cemetery. Your shooter."

The lid from the coffee cup separates noisily from the cup as it leaves Kate Beckett's hands, and connects with the floor, washing the floor anew with the hot liquid.


	13. Chapter 13

**Forty-Seven: Chapter 13**

 **DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe.

 _ **Tuesday, March 27, 2012 – Now 7:12 p.m. back at the 12**_ _ **th**_ _ **Precinct**_

Richard Castle is on his knees with a few paper towels, along with Javier Esposito, cleaning up the spilled coffee that is soaking into the wood floor. Seconds later, Kevin Ryan comes back from the breakroom with more paper towels, having underestimated the first time. Lanie is sitting in Castle's chair, pulled around to Beckett's chair, her knees locked against a sitting Kate Beckett.

Captain Gates takes the scene in, her attention focused on her prized detective. A difficult day just became flat out ridiculous for her detective, she realizes. And as much as this is absolutely Kate's case, Gates once again considers whether or not she should be even near this case.

"She's involved whether you want her to be or not, Captain," Castle whispers into her ear, knowing what she is thinking. Damn the man, she didn't even notice him stand up and approach her. All of them are on edge and not on their toes at all. "They're coming for her, so she's on the case regardless."

Gates doesn't appreciate the intrusion, but she cannot fault the logic. Castle, of course, is absolutely correct. If they are after Detective Beckett, then taking her off the case probably makes her an easier target. Her IA background drives a constant mistrust in her thinking, and right now she isn't sure who she can trust – outside of this bullpen right now – with Kate Beckett's safety.

Finally, the floor clean and paper towels discarded, the team huddles around a now-recovering Kate Beckett, who is getting the spirit of the fight back.

"So," Kate begins, "what's our first step?" She is trying her best to hold it together, and truth be told, doing a decent job of it. Far better than Castle would have thought. For the past year, he has done all he can to keep her from her mother's case, and fate has been cooperative with his efforts. Up until now, that is. Whatever her mother's murderers have been up to during this time, at least they had been invisible.

Until now.

The news that the DNA of one of the thieves who broke into Roy Montgomery's home matches that of the person who shot Kate last year is the proverbial shot across the bow of the people in the bullpen. It touches them, it haunts them, and – pride aside – it frightens them. There are few things scarier than the faceless killer, who kills from a distance, who moves in and out with ease.

Ruthless. Cunning. Invisible. Undetectable.

Until now.

"Well," Lanie begins. "We don't know the identity of our perp, just that he . . . he has a history with us."

Kate stares at her friend for a few seconds, her eyes narrowing before she releases a breath she didn't realize was being held in check. Lanie means well, but things are changing rapidly in Kate's world, all around her. Changes that require a different response from her, a different mindset. Starting now.

"Don't mince words around me, Lanie," Kate tells the medical examiner, and then faces the room at large.

"That goes for everyone here," she continues. "Don't walk on eggshells around me, trying to protect me. Whoever this bastard is, he has already left his mark on me. We won't catch him by watching what we say and do around me."

She unknowingly touches her chest as she speaks, her fingers slipping between the folds of her blouse, finding her unasked for keepsake. It's a surreal moment that Castle notes with a slight nod of his head.

"Okay, fine," Lanie agrees with a small smile. "Our perp is an assassin. The same assassin that came after Kate last year. That's what the evidence shows."

"What the evidence doesn't show," Castle muses aloud, "is why such an assassin would allow Evelyn to live."

"Especially after Evelyn shot his partner," Esposito adds.

"Good luck or good fortune, we don't know which it is," Captain Gates interjects. "The bigger question is, who is this person? Why doesn't this person have a file at all, outside of last summer's attempt on Kate, here."

"What do you mean, Captain?" Kevin Ryan asks.

"I mean," Gates replies, "everything is computerized, everything is stored. A man with the talent's that we are seeing here doesn't just show up out of the blue. He should be in the database somewhere. He's been somewhere."

"Talents?" Kate asks, now showing a bit of confusion.

"Perhaps the wrong choice of words, Detective," Gates allows. "But whatever you want to call it – and you said no mincing words here – that was a hell of a shot that our perp put into you last summer. Long distance, facing into the sun, plenty of bystanders – and he gets you through the heart. All I'm saying is this isn't a weekend Johnny who just learned how to shoot a gun."

"Military," Esposito seethes. "Or ex-military. Good with sniping skills. Avoids getting shot when his partner gets killed. Easily dispatches his victims. Left no fingerprints, and had Evelyn not scratched him, we wouldn't even be talking about him . . . or her."

"Her?" Castle asks.

"Who knows," Esposito replies. "I know some women in the military who I don't want to mess with," he says with a half smirk, half-serious tone.

"All the more reason to ask why he isn't in the system," Gates continues. "If he is ex-military, and I tend to agree with Detective Esposito's hypothesis – then why isn't he in the system?"

"Whoever he is, if he broke into Roy's old house, then we have to be ready for anything," Castle adds. "We have to assume that he found whatever it is he was looking for."

Officer Garza picks this time to walk around the corner into the bullpen. He's carrying a small manila folder.

"I take it you were able to get the negative developed?" Gates asks the approaching officer.

"Yes, sir," he quickly replies. A few more steps and he hands the folder to the captain, who opens it, and stares at the photograph.

"I guess I'm not the one who should be looking at this," she says quickly. "None of these people are familiar to me." She hands the decades-old photograph to Beckett, who stares at the six or seven men captured in a moment of happiness at Roy Montgomery's wedding.

"Me either," she says dejectedly, but she senses Castle tensing up behind her.

"Castle?" she asks, turning her head to face him. She sees it in his eyes. Someone here is familiar to him.

"Which one?" she asks.

"Him," Castle tells her, pointing at a gentleman on the end. "He's younger, of course, but that's him." He says softly – almost too softly.

"Who?" Gates asks.

"Smith," Castle replies, his voice a bit stronger now, getting more firm with each word. "This is Mr. Smith, the man I told you about."

"You're sure, Castle?" Beckett asks, her heart racing.

" _No coincidences,"_ she thinks to herself.

"Positive," Castle replies quickly. "It's the same man. It makes sense. It makes sense that Roy would share such important information with someone he knew closely. This closely," he comments, tapping the picture with his finger.

For a few seconds, everyone in the room is quiet. Kevin Ryan breaks the silence.

"So this is the man who was having secret conversations with you, Castle," Ryan states, matter-of-factly.

"This is him," Castle confirms.

"This is the man who you made a deal with, who convinced you to keep me away from my mother's case," Kate says, emotion filling her voice, anger rising in her yet again. Before Castle can respond, Ryan rescues him.

"This is the man, Beckett, who convinced Castle to keep the wolves at bay from you for the past year. The man who is probably – along with Castle – responsible for you still being alive right now to even have this discussion."

Beckett opens her mouth to begin what is going to be an emotionally-sound but logically-lacking rebuttal. Esposito's interjections saves her.

"He's right, Beckett," Esposito begins. "You went away for what – two, three months? And when you get back, you're in no shape for serious work. Your PTSD almost broke you a couple of times. Remember the sniper case? And even today, you're still not completely out of the woods. I know you're pissed at Castle, but a 'thank you' while being pissed is probably okay, you know?"

She doesn't say anything for a moment, but the words ring true from both men, men she knows love her like a sister, who would do darn near anything for her. Neither has an ulterior motive, or hidden agenda. They simply speak the truth. She can only nod her head, and glance at Castle. Castle, however, continues to stare at the photograph, seemingly miles away.

"Castle?" she gets out, finally, but he doesn't respond.

"Mr. Castle," Gates adds, with a bit more emphasis. This works, as he turns to face the captain.

"This is obviously the man you met with," Gates continues. "You were telling us, before Ms. Parish here showed up, that you now believe this man is more than just a go-between."

"Yes," is Castle's one-word reply. He continues to stare at the picture for a few more seconds, then turns his attentions to Kate.

"You're in greater danger than we realized," he tells her, now that Gates has returned his train of thought to his meeting with Mayor Bob Weldon and their realization.

"Smith didn't just ask me to keep you away from your mother's case," he begins. "He is more than willing to take any step necessary to ensure you do so, whether it is late night phone calls to me . . . or framing our mayor for embezzlement, to framing him for murder . . . or even by actually murdering someone."

Suddenly, on a whim, Castle changes tactics.

"Kate, you have Evelyn's number, don't you?" he asks.

"Yes," she replies. "Why do you –"

He grabs the photograph, and takes out his phone. Okay, so this is an extra step, but he wants a copy of this picture for himself, as well. He snaps a picture, and hands the photograph back to Captain Gates. Smiling to himself, he sends the picture to Kate's phone. Seconds later, they all hear the ding from her phone, indicating an incoming text message.

"Send that picture to Evelyn," he tells her. "Right now, and ask her if she recognizes this guy. Don't tell her anything, though, Kate. Not his name, not who we think he might be. Just ask her if she knows him."

Normally Kate would have a few questions for Castle – it's just their way. But something about his tone, something about today causes her to scroll through her contact list. Seconds later, she is on the phone with Roy Montgomery's widow.

"Evelyn, it's Kate," she begins. "No, no, everything is fine - - -

"Yes, we got the picture developed. That's why I am calling you. I'm getting ready to send the picture to you - - - "

"Yes, to your phone, yes - - - Well, that's just it. We want to know if you recognize someone. It will be the last man on the right - - -

"Yes, Evelyn - - - it's on the way now."

A few seconds pass, then a few more. Then half a minute, before Evelyn starts talking again. Kate can tell that she is on speakerphone as she views the image. She immediately realizes that everyone else here needs to hear, firsthand, what Roy's ex-wife says, and puts the call on her speakerphone as well.

"That's Michael Smith," Evelyn tells her – and by extension, everyone in the bullpen huddled around the Kate's cell phone.

"Excuse me?" Castle says, incredulously. "His name really is Smith?"

"Yes, it is," Evelyn asks. "Why do you ask, Rick? Do you know him, also?"

"Not important right now," he tells her, recovering. It's amazing, and yet, he realizes, actually brilliant. He's learned from his writing discoveries that often, the easiest way of hiding is not behind a lie, but instead, behind the truth. Smith is such a common name that by simply giving his real last name, Smith all but ensured that Castle immediately discounted the name as a real possibility.

"What can you tell us about him?" Castle asks, continuing the discussion.

"Mike and Roy were old friends from college," Evelyn answers as the team huddles closer around Kate, who holds her phone out for everyone to hear.

"Mike came from money, while Roy did not," she continues. "Last I know, Mie was working for some attorney firm. Pennington and something or other."

Kevin Ryan immediately jogs back to his desk, plopping down in the seat in front of his computer, doing a search on law firms in the city or state beginning with Pennington.

"Mike and Melinda live in Connecticut – at least they used to, as far as I know. Didn't come to Roy's funeral though," Evelyn says and they all hear the raw emotion, the disappointment in her voice as she tells them this bit of news.

"Makes sense" Castle whispers to a few puzzled faces. Smith was too busy breaking into Roy's house.

"Do you have his address, Evelyn?" Kate asks.

"Sure do," Evelyn replies quickly. "Give me a second."

"Got it," they hear Kevin Ryan exclaim over at his desk. All of the heads turn.

"Pennington, Parker and Clark, in the city. Also has offices in Connecticut," Ryan tells the team. Another piece to the puzzle falls into place, as Evelyn comes back and gives them the address.

"Thanks Evelyn," Kate says in closing. "We'll be in touch."

She signs off, and glances at the team.

"I guess we're going to Connecticut," Esposito smiles, and Kate manages a small smile as well.

 _ **Still Tuesday, March 27, 2012 – Now 9:09 p.m., in Stamford, Connecticut**_

"There's his house," Castle says, pointing at the large two-story home up the street on the left. Old style homes line the street. They come from money. Old money.

"Finally," Esposito states from the back seat. Everyone is on edge. Traffic was a bear from the city, it is late, it has been a long day and everyone is feeling it now.

"I still say this could have waited until tomorrow morning," Esposito continues. He's been griping for the last twenty minutes of the trip, and by now everyone is ignoring him. They know it's just his way of releasing tension.

Kate Beckett stops the car, and Kevin Ryan and Javier Esposito take out their weapons as they all exit the car, four houses away from Smith's home. They hide them along their side, hoping no one is watching out their windows.

"You sure that this is necessary, Castle?" Kate asks, still unsure.

"Smith is a dangerous man, Kate," he tells her. "He framed Bob, and trust me, he killed Linda Cambridge. Everyone is dying except two people – you and Smith. You - I trust. Him, I don't any longer. He is willing to do anything right now. He's cornered. That makes him dangerous."

She can't argue with anything he says. He's learned well over the past four years. The three detectives plus Castle arrive at the home and Castle walks up the six steps to the front door. Kate is behind him, while Esposito walks around the right side of the house to the back yard. Kevin Ryan heads to the back yard around the left side of the house.

Castle rings the doorbell. He glances back at Kate, who gives him a not-so-reassuring smile. He can't blame her.

Five seconds pass, then ten. Now twenty. There is no answer. Castle rings the doorbell again. Another ten seconds pass, then ten more.

Suddenly a light is turned on and there is some commotion. Kate is ready to smash the door window and work her way in when she and Castle – through the door window – see the half lit forms of Esposito and Ryan walking to the door. A few seconds later, the front door opens and Castle and Kate walk in, confused as to how – and why – their two colleagues have broken in from the back. The plan was to make sure Smith didn't bolt through the back door – not have them break in.

"Javi, what the –"

"Kate . . . just follow us," Kevin says, and his face tells Beckett all she needs to know. She and Castle follow the two detectives into the kitchen area. They are seasoned detectives – Beckett, Esposito and Ryan – but the macabre scene that unfolds in front of them is something you never get used to.

Melinda Smith is tied to a chair, a few fingers broken, along with her nose. A bullet hole in her slumped back head prevents them from even bothering to check for a pulse, as they gaze at her lifeless, opened eyes.

In a chair next to her is her equally deceased husband. Mr. Michael Smith's lifeless eyes also stare back at them, his face adorned with lacerations and two bullet holes in his chest over his heart.

And that's not even the worst part.

A message is written on the kitchen wall. Written in the blood of one or both of the two corpses in the chairs. It's a simple message – one that chills the room.

 _4 – 1 – 3 – 1 – 9_


	14. Chapter 14

**Forty-Seven: Chapter 14**

 **DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe.

 _ **Tuesday, March 27, 2012 – Now 9:18 p.m. at Mr. Smith's Home**_

"Well isn't this just peachy," Richard Castle mutters under his breath as he stares at the writing on the wall. There is no misunderstanding the meaning, the message. It is a warning, pure and simple, and it is aimed at one person in the room.

That person stands with her hands on her hips, now glaring at the message, all but daring her tormentor to show himself.

"Hide while you can, bastard," she whispers to herself, just a fraction too loud, so that the tall man next to her hears it clearly.

"We'll get him," Castle says softly to his . . . his . . . whatever the heck they are right now. Kate? She's not so sure.

"How, Castle?" We don't know who he is. We don't know where he lives. We don't know what he looks like. We don't –"

"That might not be entirely true, Kate," Kevin Ryan tells her. He is pointing to a small spy-camera. It is well-hidden, well disguised within the plant in one of the kitchen corners along the counter. The only reason he knows this is because – in one of his uber-protective moments – he acquired a few of the little buggers for Jenny in their home. Just as a precaution.

As he pulled himself out of the shocking remains in front of them and began morphing into 'detective mode' at the scene of this crime, he came across the camera and immediately recognized what it is.

Esposito follows the eye line of sight of his friend, and hones in on the object of Kevin's attention.

"Is that what I think it is?" he asks his friend.

"Yep," Detective Ryan replies, then transfers his look to Kate Beckett. "It's a spy camera. We just have to find the server it feeds.

Kate allows herself a small smile, then a quick frown as Castle leaves her side, walking to the front door.

"Where are you going?" she asks, wondering what would prompt him to leave. He's obviously looking for something.

"If he has a camera inside the house," Castle muses aloud to the group, as he opens the door, "then chances are there is one outside as well."

Esposito nods, and Kate is once again reminded of her great fortune to have this group of men as her teammates. Each of them, in their own way, has done much to take care of her, watch over her, even though she abhors the idea of needing someone to watch out for her.

Meanwhile, Kevin Ryan and Esposito are now on the hunt throughout the house – guns drawn – making sure the rest of the house is clean. There is always a chance that the perp who has murdered Mr. and Mrs. Smith is still here. It's a big house, with two floors. If he is not still here, then their search for the server and monitor becomes easier. If he is still here – watching them – well, they're all in great danger then.

Kate stares at the bloody message on the wall again.

" _What kind of monster does this?"_ she thinks to herself as she picks up her phone and begins dialing dispatch, to bring an ambulance to the residence. As they answer the phone, Kate recites the address and calls for a wagon.

"It's a pick-up," she tells them, indicating no one is alive. "Two bodies."

She hangs up as she hears her colleagues in the back of the house.

"Clear!" she recognizes the voice of Javier Esposito upstairs. A few seconds later, Kevin Ryan chimes in from a different room still downstairs.

"Clear!"

This goes on for another half minute, until she hears Ryan call back to her.

"Kate, back here," he yells loudly. Kate is walking toward the back hallway to get to the room where Kevin Ryan is now sitting, at a desktop. A minute later she is in a den near the end of the hallway. She hears Esposito walking loudly back down the steps after his thorough sweep of the upstairs rooms of the home.

"What do you have, Kevin?" she asks, as she settles in, standing behind the detective who is peering over a computer monitor.

"Searching . . . for . . . searching . . . for . . ."

He pauses another few seconds before smiling, pumping his fist in the air in victory.

"Got it!" he exclaims, as she watches him open a folder, giving them a live feed from the kitchen area. He slowly starts to rewind the video, gaining speed as he is looking for the timeframe of the 'event'. They spend the next minute or so watching blurred images speed past their eyes.

Quietly, Castle walks back into the house and follows the sounds of small chit-chat between Kate and Ryan to the den. He stays quiet, watching Ryan as he enters the room, knowing immediately what the detective is doing.

"Find him yet?" he asks. Sure, it's an assumption that their perp is a 'he'. But given the state of the victims in the kitchen, it's also an assumption he's willing to run with.

"Not yet," Kate replies for both of them.

"When you're finished, we should check another folder," he replies calmly.

"For what?" Ryan asks, as he watches the images continue to whisk by.

"There's another camera, far side of the front porch – pointed at the street," he smiles.

"License plate?" Kate asks excitedly.

"If we're lucky," Castle admits. That's what he's hoping for. Another half minute goes by, as he is now standing next to Kate, gazing over Kevin's shoulder. Esposito stands next to him.

"Getting crowded in here," Castle smiles.

"Shut up, Castle," Esposito teases, trying to break the tension. Suddenly, a gasp is heard from Ryan as he slows down and has to back the cursor up. There it is. Their man. He looks mean. He looks tough. Castle feels Javier Esposito tighten up. He glances at his friend as the words leave his mouth.

"No fucking way," Esposito exclaims. Not the kind of language he uses in front of Kate Beckett, and for that reason, all heads turn to him.

"What is it, Javi?" she asks, and quickly notices the anger on his face, a face that has suddenly gone ashen. Veins are sticking out. It's not a pretty sight.

"Javi?" she asks again.

"C-Mark," he breathes.

"Who?" Castle asks.

"Cedric Marks," Esposito replies. "C-Mark. Special Forces. Good . . . dammit . . . he was a good man."

"Not anymore," Castle reflects aloud, as the foursome force themselves to watch a gruesome scene play out in front of them on the screen.


	15. Chapter 15

**Forty-Seven: Chapter 15**

 **DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe.

 _ **Tuesday, March 27, 2012 – Now 9:32 p.m. – Still at Mr. Smith's Home**_

The video is hard to watch. There is no sound – thank God for small favors. It doesn't matter, though, as just the visuals are enough to turn even the most hardened stomachs.

But that's not the tough part.

For Detective Javier Esposito, it is watching a man who he remembers as a tough, fair and loyal fellow soldier - and the closest thing to a brother he ever had - that breaks him. Watching a man he thought he knew well dismantle an innocent human being is . . . well, it's just too much. A single tear streaks down his face, and all three of his partners – Kate, Kevin and Castle – find themselves wondering if they have ever seen the self-taught, tough man cry.

"Javi?" Kevin Ryan asks, turning in his chair and putting a protective hand on his friends arm. The teary, glazed look in Esposito's eyes tells Kevin that his friend is far, far away.

 _ **1994 in the High School parking lot**_

 _Fifteen year-old Javier Esposito is in a pickle this time. The high school freshman is always in and out of trouble – sometimes with the law, other times with older boys that are the law in this neighborhood – and this time he's bitten off far more than he can chew. He couldn't help it. When James had laughed and called him 'little boy with daddy issues', well . . . Javier just snapped. Being abandoned by his father ten years ago has left a chip on his shoulder that has grown into a small boulder. He's tough, but often his mouth writes checks that his ass can't cash. Like today._

 _After attacking James, and starting to get the better of him, James' buddy Walter jumped into the fray. That made it two on one. Difficult, but not impossible for someone with Javier's background. He has built a pretty significant juvenile record – all misdemeanors – but significant nonetheless. He knows how to fight. Boy, does he know how to fight. He's holding his own. Suddenly, two other boys who he has never seen join the festivities, and now he's in trouble. One on one has turned into two on one, which is now four on one. He tastes his own blood in his mouth, and suddenly he's having trouble seeing out of his left eye. It's swelling quickly._

 _And then, the fight is over. James is lying next to him, half-conscious. One of the new additions to the fight is on his knees retching, while Walter and the other unknown kid are fleeing._

" _What the-" Javier thinks, when he sees a large hand reaching down for him. He lifts his eyes just a bit higher and sees the smirking form of Cedric, lifting him up to his feet._

" _C-Mark?" he asks, then manages a smile._

 _Cedric Marks is fifteen also, and he and Javier have been best friends since 7_ _th_ _grade. Like Javier, Cedric is a good fighter. Unlike Javier, Cedric has walked the straight and narrow. His dad, Christian Marks, makes sure of that. It's what Javier misses. It's what he needs._

" _Thanks C-Mark," he smiles through blood-stained teeth._

" _You do the same for me," Cedric smiles, his piercing eyes laughing at his friend._

 _ **Tuesday, March 27, 2012 – 9:35 p.m. – Still at Mr. Smith's Home**_

"How well do you know him?" Kevin Ryan asks his friend, trying to bring him back to the present. Esposito blinks a couple of times, and now he is back in the moment with his friends, staring at the images on the screen.

"More important," Castle interjects, " _how long_ have you known him?" Richard Castle understands a little something about boyhood friends, boyhood idols.

"Eighteen, nineteen years I'd say," Esposito answers softly. Kate Beckett considers her friend, and a myriad of questions assault her. Clearly this man who has brutally killed the Smiths is a friend of Esposito. From the looks of it, far more than just a friend. A best friend. Which makes the internal interrogation going on in her head all the more troubling – and potentially damaging to her team.

Yes, this man is a murderer. The video shows this clearly. But the thought going through her mind is far scarier. Is this the same man who broke into Evelyn's home? There are no coincidences. Someone broke into Evelyn's house looking for clues to who this 'Mr. Smith' actually was. And the intruder got the information he was looking for. Now, the next day, Smith and his wife are dead, and they have a video of the perpetrator. He has to be the same man . . . doesn't he? Dear God, she hopes not.

Because if this is the same man, and if Lanie's DNA testing is right, that means this is also the same man who shot her. This is the same man who almost killed her last summer. God, please don't let her almost-killer turn out to be some long-lost, close friend of Javier Esposito. How do they possibly deal with that? She glances at her friend, a man she considers to be a big brother; a man she trusts with her life. He is gazing at her now, and she knows – instinctively – that the same set of questions are now running through his mind. It's the confirmation she dreads, as she watches his eyes glaze over again.

 _ **1996 in front of the Corner Deli two blocks from the High School**_

 _Seventeen year-old Javier Esposito is in the second year of varsity baseball. The junior has used baseball to turn his life around. Well, baseball, and a certain baseball coach. Christian Marks, his best friend's father, is the varsity coach. Seeing the young boy who constantly got himself into trouble finally took its toll on the older man, and he had brought the naturally athletic Esposito into the baseball program last year._

 _It was a good match, as Esposito's distant but still-fond memories of going to baseball games with his own father – before his dad bolted – made the transition from erstwhile gang-member to varsity baseball player much easier. Playing shortstop alongside his best friend, Cedric, who played third base and pitched . . . well, this made high school years tolerable at first. Now, in his junior year, it is more than tolerable. It's enjoyable._

 _The two boys are walking home after baseball practice when a white car comes to a screeching halt alongside the street as they walk on the sidewalk. Suddenly, five or six boys pour out of the Taurus station wagon. They are from a rival school that Esposito and Marks have just played earlier this week. Unfortunately, that game erupted into a bench-clearing brawl after C-Mark has brushed back one of their players late in the game. The group of boys is on Cedric before he can react, and he's on the ground, trying to roll and kick his way free. A few grunts and screams later, he finds himself able to get up. Three of the boys are laid out, bloody alongside the station wagon, while a fourth is getting his face pounded by a merciless Esposito. The two remaining boys flee, jumping into the car and gunning it to life. Leaving their friends. Esposito spits a final warning in disgust at the retreating boys who would leave their friends like that._

 _He glances over at C-Mark, who is now on his feet and walking toward him._

" _Thanks Javi," C-Mark smiles through blood-stained teeth._

" _You do the same for me," Javier smiles, wiping the blood from his hands along his pants._

 _ **Tuesday, March 27, 2012 – Now 9:35 p.m. – Still at Mr. Smith's Home**_

"Cedric saved my ass more times than I can remember," Esposito tells the group, running his hands across his face in exasperation. "And I returned the favor just as often. But his dad . . . Mr. Marks . . . he took me in, under his wing. He got me off the streets and onto the ball field. He got me away from the city and into the Army. With C-Mark."

His words drift off, as he minds drifts away – again pulling up past memories.

 _ **2003, in Basra, Iraq during the initial days of the Invasion of Iraq**_

 _Sgt. Javier Esposito is roughly six years into his time with the U.S. Army. The Special Forces man has quickly put his natural fighting skills – together with the discipline he began to learn in baseball as part of team – to effective use for the Army. His friend, Cedric Marks, is Special Forces also, and the two are constantly in touch, and occasionally together._

 _Now, sitting two years after the 9/11 attacks in New York, both men have done tours in Afghanistan, and now are together as U.S. Special Forces works with the British troops and tanks that march along the famed Highway of Death in Iraq. Serving with the British, who are more adept at this tank war, they have found surprisingly strong initial resistance in these first couple of days in March of 2003. The invasion of Basra is considered strategically important._

 _The night air is still beyond hot as hell, and the large hole in Sgt. Cedric Marks' chest is bleeding profusely as Esposito drags him behind the FV4034 Challenger 2 battle tank, as it lumbers forward, spitting fiery death. Sgt. Jerry Richart has stepped on a mine, blowing himself apart. His last act on earth – sadly – has been an involuntary pull on the trigger resulting in the hole in C-Mark's chest, as the team continues to take fire. Ten minutes later, the medivac chopper whisks his best friend away, while a relatively uninjured Sgt. Esposito continues with the rest of the Americans northward, leaving the better-suited British to continue this phase of the initial attack._

 _ **Tuesday, March 27, 2012 – Now 9:40 p.m. – Still at Mr. Smith's Home**_

"And that was the last you saw of him?" Castle asks. Esposito has been recounting the horrors of the initial days of the Iraqi War to the group.

"No," Javier corrects him. "I saw him a couple of times stateside, but I went into law enforcement, while C-Mark found work with a couple of defense contractors. He was going to get married, I thought, but something happened. He never told me."

"He was your best friend, and he never told you?" Kate asks, incredulously.

"Yeah, Beckett," Esposito replies defensively. "He never told me."

Castle sees how the conversation is deteriorating, and intervenes quickly.

"Kevin," Castle begins, "get out of this feed, and pull up the folder for the front porch camera," Castle tells him. "Back out of there. Hopefully if he used straightforward naming conventions, we can see it easily enough."

Ryan does as he is asked, and a few seconds later, they are viewing the feed from the front porch. Recalling roughly how far back he had to rewind from the previous feed, the detective takes a swag and seconds later, the foursome see a Cedric Marks step up on the porch and knock on the door. They don't see the car at first, because the camera is positioned on the front porch, at the front door. Once Maddox walks up into view, only then does Castle put it together. He tells Ryan to back it up. In the distance, they see the Ford arrive and park, about two houses up the street.

"That might be it," Kate muses aloud. In response, Kevin Ryan rewinds the video more . . . a little more. And a little more.

"There," Ryan tells the watching team. They watch Cedric Marks get out of the car and walk across the street toward Smith's front door.

"Definitely our guy, definitely our car," Kate comments absently as she takes out a small notepad and jots down the license plate number. Pure providence that he parked exactly where he did, in easy line of sight for the hidden camera.

" _Smith was thorough"_ she thinks to herself, and then nods, realizing that – yeah – if Smith did everything Castle has said, then thorough probably doesn't begin to describe the man.

" _But not thorough enough,"_ she muses sadly, recalling the gruesome scene in the kitchen.

"Wait a minute," Castle says suddenly, moving away from the computer monitor toward the door leading out of the den into the hallway.

"What is it, Castle?" she asks.

"That car," he tells them as he jogs down the hallway, his enthusiasm for the moment overtaking his common cautionary sense. "I saw that car as we drove up. He's still here!"

For a brief instant, there is silence in the den. For a one-count, a two-count . . .

"Castle!" Esposito screams suddenly, now brushing past Kate Beckett and running to the hallway. He zips down the corridor into the open foyer area in time to see Richard Castle open the door.

"I was right," Castle shouts, and is abruptly stunned into paralysis. He sees the gun nozzle pointing at him from his right side. The face of the man who they have just viewed ad nauseam in full motion, black and white video is staring at him, crouching, less than five feet away on the porch. Castle had missed the mercenary in the darkness, and immediately turns to his left, trying desperately to dive back into the safety of the home.

He is a second too late.

"Oh shit," Castle says as he hears the explosive gunshot from the car and feels a sudden tug on the back of his right arm, followed by a shot of searing pain. Try as he might, he cannot keep his balance and the force of the shot drives him sideways to his knees. Detective Javier Esposito reaches the door in time to try to catch – unsuccessfully – the falling novelist. Then – the worst part – he hears a familiar voice call out to him.

"Stay out of this, Javi," Cedrick Marks tells him, as he launches himself into a long, lunging kick that pops Esposito on the side of his cheek. The kick floors the stunned detective, who tries to blink away the unconsciousness that beckons him. Marks ends the effort with a hard blow to the head with the butt of his pistol.

"Don't make me hurt you," he tells his unconscious friend, while detaching a small grenade from his shoulder belt. He pulls the pen, and tosses the grenade past the living room, bouncing into the kitchen area.

"Grenade!" Castle manages to scream out, hoping that Kate and Kevin are not following in the hallway. He then watches – wide eyed and still on his knees at the front door – as Marks approaches him, pure menace in his eyes, still in combat mode.

Marks glances down at Castle, as if contemplating his next move. Making up his mind, he brushes past Castle with a quick blow to the side of Castle's head, stunning him face-first into the floor.

"Not bad," Marks says softly, loud enough for Castle to hear.

"I'll be back for you later," he offers with a smile, offering a quick kick to the side of his head, smirking as he watches Castle fall forward. He walks out the door, and slowly jogs to the tan Ford sedan across the street. He glances back, satisfied that no one inside is following, and then speeds away into the night.


	16. Chapter 16

**Forty-Seven: Chapter 16**

 **DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe.

 _ **Wednesday, March 28, 2012 – Now 12:07 a.m. – At a luxurious hotel in Manhattan**_

The team sits in the expansive open living room of the beautiful suite, high atop Manhattan. They can't go home – not yet, not tonight. All of them are potentially in danger, some more than others.

" _I'll be back for you later."_

It was a clear warning to Richard Castle – and by extension, his family. Hence, his first call after regaining his senses at Mr. Smith's house was a call here to this hotel, one he has used in years past for a few of the author's more . . . amorous adventures. Those he wanted to keep out of the press. Sure, those were rare exceptions, as most of the time he wanted his escapades front and center in the public mind in order to further his bad-boy reputation.

Occasionally, however, Meredith would pop back into town, and Castle initially worried that bringing his deep-fried twinkie to the loft – to young Alexis – would be too confusing for the young girl. So in those cases, Martha would watch over the young girl while Castle took his dalliances with his ex-wife to a secluded area.

This hotel.

He's registered as Alexander Richardson, an identity he created and has not used in some six plus years. He's fortunate that four top floor rooms were available. He reserved four rooms – one for Alexis, Martha and himself. One for Kate. One for Javier. And one for Kevin and Jenny.

Normally his friends would balk at such a generous move. Not tonight. Not after the incident at the Smith household.

Yeah, incident.

A man and woman – dead. Castle himself has just finished an hour in an ambulance, getting a bullet removed and bandaged up. Given the lack of security in most hospitals, he wanted no part of a hospital visit. Not with Marks out there. His number one priority was getting the bullet out of his arm, and his mother and daughter out of his loft.

He considers all of them in danger – friends and family - and they all agree. Except for Captain Gates, who they agree is probably in the clear. Still, she is their captain, and so she is there just for this meeting. Afterward, she will go back to her home, to her husband.

He had briefly considered whisking everyone to his place in the Hamptons. That beach home, however, is a known residence of Richard Castle. And Marks seems to know too much already. He's always one step ahead. So Castle has opted for these rooms.

Alexis and Martha are in their room as they meet. Jenny is with them, not wanting to be alone given the limited information that husband, Kevin, has shared with her.

"So, where are we?" Captain Gates asks the group at large, glancing at her watch. "We have matched the license plate number to a Cole Maddox. That's the alias he lives under. We have his home address. It's here in Manhattan."

"Nice area he lives in," Castle muses aloud.

"Murder seems to pay well these days," Detective Kate Beckett mutters bitterly under her breath. Still, the words carry and her sentiments are heard by all.

Detective Javier Esposito is quiet – both in terms of words and spirit. There is a distance – a chasm – between the detective and his good friend Kate Beckett. A chasm that is increasing in size with every passing moment of silence between the two. It's understandable. Even after what they have seen Maddox/Marks do – to the Smiths, to Castle, to Javi himself – Esposito still recalls – still clings to - the boyhood friend who saved his bacon more times than he can remember. The boyhood friend whose father turned a young ruffian's life around.

Javier Esposito is conflicted. Kevin Ryan understands. Richard Castle understands.

Kate Beckett does not.

Yeah, this guy killed the Smiths, and assaulted Castle and Esposito. But more than that – for Kate Beckett – this man shot her. This man attempted to assassinate her. In a cemetery. She fingers the scar left by this man's bullet through her blouse. He left her a souvenir. He left her with PTSD. He left her a mess.

And yet, she continues to stare across the room at her friend, who has withdrawn from everyone, somewhere in his own mind.

Richard Castle, however, can understand the conflict Esposito battles. Like Esposito, he, too grew up without a father. He asks himself which is worse.

Never knowing your father, and growing up only with your mom?

Or knowing your dad, loving your dad, building childhood memories with your dad, only to watch him suddenly leave, go away and have virtually no further contact. Abandoned. Like Esposito. Then Esposito found both the father-figure he desperately needed along with the brother he always wanted.

Yeah . . . conflicted.

"We know where he lives," Gates continues, her words bringing Castle back to the present. "We move in tonight to arrest him. I will call in for back-up and –"

"No," Javier Esposito says suddenly, and all heads snap in his direction. Kate Beckett cannot hide her derision and disappointment with her friend.

" _Of course he wants to wait. He doesn't understand. And he should understand,"_ she thinks to herself.

"Excuse me?" Captain Gates manages to say, not attempting to hide her surprise.

"Move in to arrest him now, and we're all dead before we get to his apartment," Esposito says calmly. Just as Marks is, Javier is in combat-mode right now, thinking like a soldier. Thinking like a soldier who is facing a tremendous soldier.

"This is war for C-Mark," he begins, drawing another frown from Kate Beckett at the use of the familiar nick-name. "You attack your enemy when they are likely to offer the least resistance. That's typically during the wee hours of the morning, under normal circumstances. But these are not normal circumstances."

He gathers himself and stands up, approaching the group now.

"But you don't attack an enemy without reconnaissance. Without intel. Especially this enemy. He knows we're coming. We scope him out first, then attack tomorrow morning. If he's still there."

"And just how would he know we are coming?" Kate asks suspiciously. Her unspoken accusation hangs in the air.

"Because he knows we saw his car," Esposito says calmly, struggling to keep his emotions in check. "He's not stupid. The fact that he stuck around after killing the Smiths instead of bolting means he wanted to see us. He wanted to assess his enemy. He's already reconnoitered us," he adds, bringing additional stress into the room.

"You sound like you admire him," Kate explodes. "I can't believe you are . . . you . . . it's like you are sympathizing with him, Javi," she begins to plead. "He is a monster."

"He's not a monster, Kate," Javier Esposito tries to explain. "As brutal as the scene at the Smith's was last night, trust me, I remember scenes far more brutal than that during my tours in the Middle East. And so does Marks." He intentionally uses his friend's last name, as a small olive branch to Kate.

His mind takes him back to Afghanistan, to Iraq. Those were brutal scenes. Men, women, children dead. Soldiers dismembered by landmines. Bodies burned beyond recognition. He's seen atrocities. Hell, he's committed atrocities against other human beings. Perhaps the average person wouldn't consider it as such, but tell that to the families of men he has killed under the protective stripes of a soldier. A gunshot to the head. A knife to the chest. It doesn't matter. Dead is dead. It's all an atrocity. He almost chuckles at the irony. Put a person on a battlefield and it is perfectly fine to accept brutality and death. Put that same person in the city or suburbs and those same actions are suddenly barbaric. It's no wonder that so many of his friends struggled upon their return stateside.

He pushes those thoughts out of his head as he continues. He intentionally moves his gaze away from Kate, and places his eyes on his captain.

"We can't assume that he doesn't know we are coming, sir" Javier comments. "Your Mr. Smith made assumptions for a year, and it finally caught up with him," he says, glancing at Castle.

"Roy made assumptions for years – and still it finally caught up even to him, and he was in on the whole damn gig," he continues. "So no, I'm not making that assumption. Let's check his place out first. Just to be smart. Keep a team on the building to make sure he doesn't leave, but don't try anything tonight."

Captain Gates nods her head, recognizing the wisdom in her ex-Special Forces detective's plan. Kate Beckett has a different reaction.

"You're not in charge of this case!" Kate tells him angrily. Rick Castle moves toward her, attempting to defuse the situation. He's familiar with the 'divide and conquer' tactics that the villain often uses in his own books. He isn't fast enough.

"You're right, Beckett," Esposito mutters angrily. "I'm not."

He takes his badge out, and his shoulder revolver and places both on the table in front of everyone. He bends to retrieve the second revolver from his lower leg holster, and places that gun next to the other items.

"These belong to you," he tells a stunned Captain Gates, as Kate stands wide-eyed, tears starting to brim her eyelids. She opens her mouth, but the words won't come out. No matter, it's too late, as ex-Detective Javier Esposito walks to the front door of the hotel suite.

"Try not to get killed," he tells the room at large, shutting the door behind him. The slamming door snaps Kevin Ryan out of the moment, and the detective quickly moves across the room, opening the door and taking off after his friend. He catches him at the elevator, putting a supportive hand on his friend's shoulder.

"You're my friend," Esposito tells him quietly but firmly, "so I am giving you to the count of one." Something in his words stirs Kevin Ryan, who quickly removes his hand.

"Where are you going, Javi?" Ryan asks, his eyes pleading, glancing back at the room they have just left. Richard Castle stands in the doorway, confused and hoping Ryan can make some headway with their friend.

"I'm going home, bro," Esposito tells him. "If C-Mark wanted me dead, I'd be dead right now."

The elevator chimes, as the door opens. Esposito enters the elevator car, and hits the button for the lobby. Seconds later the door closes, and a disconsolate Kevin Ryan turns back toward the room, his eyes taking in Richard Castle, who wonders to himself just how things in his life – and the lives of his friends – managed to go to hell in a mere twelve hours.


	17. Chapter 17

**Forty-Seven: Chapter 17**

 **DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe.

 _ **Wednesday, March 28, 2012 – 12:49 a.m. – Outside Cole Maddox's apartment in Lower Manhattan**_

Detective Javier Esposito steps out of the cab, pulling his coat tighter around his body. The brisk New York spring air – remnants from the winter – still carries it bite. Finding Cedric's apartment was easy enough with the address.

Everything Javier Esposito has told his friends is true. They _do_ need to wait, because Marks _is_ expecting them tonight. Strategically, this is the truth. But that's the key. Marks is expecting _them_. Not _him._ Not by himself. Alone. Unarmed.

He also knows, however, that something is off. You know how it is when something is just missing. Something is not right. He can't put his finger on it, but something about this screams to him that there is something important that he is missing. There is something critical that he doesn't see. He suspects it is about the now-deceased Mr. Smith. But he cannot place it right now. Not yet.

" _I'll figure this out, though,"_ he tells himself as he offers a glance upward, at the fourth floor where he knows his friend is currently living.

He knows that Cedric Mark could have – should have – killed him this evening. That he didn't allows Javier to take this small risk. He's going to visit his old friend. Right now. He mutters something unintelligible to the stars above, and then walks quickly to the building, and goes into the foyer on the first floor. Here he is greeted by Benny, the security guard on duty sitting at the desk.

" _Cedric is living well,"_ he thinks to himself, shaking the thoughts of exactly how Mr. Cedric Marks makes his living out of his mind.

Benny looks up in greeting with a raised eyebrow. It is – after all – almost one o'clock in the morning, not the time you want to see a strange man – a mean and tough looking man – walk into your residential establishment.

The 12th Precinct detective remembers – at the last minute before speaking – that the car license plate is registered to a 'Cole Maddox', not a Cedric Marks. That's the name he has to use.

"I'm here to see Cole Maddox," Javier begins, his tone friendly but not completely inviting. The stance works.

"Tell him Javi is here. Tell him I'm naked," he adds.

"What?"

"Just tell him," Esposito smiles, still friendly. He knows that Cedric will understand that Javier is telling him that he is unarmed.

Benny, fortunately, is a bit slow this morning. The hidden meaning of Esposito's statement is lost on the man, who simply wants seven a.m. to hurry up and get here. Benny picks up the phone and rings Cole Maddox's apartment.

"Mr. Maddox doesn't usually take many visitors," Benny begins, trying to remember if – in fact – he has ever seen _anyone_ visit the intimidating man. After three rings, Marks answers.

"Mr. Maddox, this is Benny downstairs. There is a Javi here to see you."

Having expected 'that bitch Beckett' and her entire motley crew – Esposito excluded – Cedric Marks is surprised that it is his friend only – on his own – making this journey.

"Really? Alone?" Marks questions.

"Yes," Benny replies, confused. "Oh, and get this," Bennie adds, laughing. "He says he is naked. Only he's not. Must be some joke between you two."

"Yeah, it is some joke," Cedric muses aloud. "Send him up."

"Okay, Mr. Maddox," the security guard responds quickly. He has learned that it pays to be on Cole Maddox's good side. He is just about to hang up when Cedric stops him.

"Oh, and Benny," Marks begins.

"Yeah Mr. Maddox?"

"Tell him to put some clothes on."

'Sure thing, Mr. Maddox," Benny tells him, laughing as though this is some inside joke between the he and the tough guy upstairs, all the while knowing that he has no idea what either of these men are talking about. He turns to Javier Esposito and gives him the message.

"Go on up," he tells him, pointing the bank of elevators, then adds with a smile, "and Mr. Maddox says to put some clothes on."

Javier nods his head, realizing what his friend has just told him. Arm yourself. Don't assume this is a friendly visit. Well, that's not an option, as both of his weapons are with Captain Gates. It's the reason he turned the weapons – and his badge – in to his captain. What he plans on doing is so against police regulations.

He walks toward the elevators, offering a disgusted glance back at the smug security guard. Seconds later, he steps onto the second elevator car and punches floor four. As the door closes so do his eyes as he takes a few deep, calming breaths.

 _ **Wednesday, March 28, 2012 – 1:03 a.m. – Back at the Hotel Sanctuary in Manhattan**_

Richard Castle stands in the doorway to the second bedroom in his suite on the top floor. Inside the bedroom, Alexis is drifting off, while in the double bed beside her, Martha is fast asleep. It's clearly been one of those _You've Got to be Kidding Me_ nights. Satisfied that his baby girl is safe, Castle walks slowly to his bedroom – the master, with a king bed, decent size closet, 46 inch television – flat screen of course – and an elaborate bathroom, with marble floors, granite top around the sink, and a walk in glass shower.

He walks immediately to the bathroom, grabbing the toothbrush he has already unpacked, and begins brushing his teeth. It's an elaborate exercise to busy himself, as he has already brushed his teeth twice in the past two hours. He smiles at the reflection in the mirror, recognizing the game he is playing. He rinses his mouth out and slowly walks back out into the living area, and plops down on the sofa.

The room is dark and quiet – just the way he wants it. He doesn't even get his head back on the cushion before he hears the light rapping on the front door to the suite.

" _How did he find us?"_ Castle whistles suddenly, his heart racing wildly.

That's his first thought. That Esposito was right. Maddox is expecting them. But not only expecting them, but he's bringing the fight to them – doing exactly what Esposito said – attacking when the enemy least expects it. He can't help but tremble as the fears begin to overtake him. Luckily, logic intervenes.

No, Maddox isn't going to show up here and knock politely on the door. He's a sniper. He'd be across the street, scoping out their lair in true sniper form. He'd be next door, overcoming the client – in this case, Kevin and Jenny Ryan, and laying an ambush for Castle.

No, that doesn't work either. This isn't about Castle. First and foremost, Maddox is after Kate Beckett. She'd be his first target.

He walks stealthily to the front door – as if that's actually going to help – and peeps through the viewing hole. The beautiful image of Kate Beckett neither thrills nor repels him. That's when he realizes that this really is one crappy day.

Opening the door, he puts his best – and genuine – smile on his face in greeting.

"Hello Beckett," he offers, opening the door wide.

"Hi Castle," she returns, walking in quickly. He shuts the door behind her, and in his most comical form, remembering the thought just seconds ago about snipers and Beckett, he runs to the large floor-to-ceiling window and pulls the curtains closed.

"Castle?" Kate inquires.

"Don't ask," Castle replies, quickly adding, "And don't even think about turning any lights on."

"What – are you trying to seduce me?" she asks with a smirk – not a smile – but that devilish smirk that both infuriates and infatuates him.

"Tonight? Absolutely not," he offers her truthfully. "I was just surprised by . . . wait a minute . . . are you asking me to seduce you?"

"What? No! No," she offers just a little too quickly, bringing a victorious smile to his face.

"So why are you here, Kate?" he asks, offering her first name as an olive branch.

"I . . . I came here to . . . I just wanted to . . . oh hell, Castle!"

She finds the sofa in the dark, and plops down backwards, mimicking to the last detail the movement he had made not sixty seconds earlier."

"Tough day," he gives her with a small smile.

"I've had tougher," she replies, smiling herself.

"I know you have," he agrees. He sits beside her, facing her. She faces him, and their knees touch. Both are far too tired to make a game of this.

"Still," he continues, "today has definitely been one of those –"

"I'm so sorry, Castle," she suddenly whispers – literally – as her head moves forward, touching his forehead. For a few seconds, neither of them move. Both are surprised.

She has surprised herself with such a familiar and intimate move, initiated completely on her own. He is stunned into silence by such a move that he has all but accepted would ever come.

"I'm so sorry, Rick," she says again, still barely above a whisper.

"Kate?" he begins to ask, but she cuts him off.

"I shouldn't have lied," she begins. There are no tears. There is no fire in her voice. There is no begging or pleading. Somewhere today, in the past twelve or so hours, Kate Beckett stepped out into that fork in the road. And she has made her decision as to which path the rest of her journey will take. Now she simply needs to convince him to take the journey with her.

"I have no excuse," she continues. "Oh, believe me, I've got plenty of excuses, but I have no real excuse for what I've done. I lied to you. And kept the lie alive. Castle, I've done so many things to keep that lie alive. And it grew, Castle – it grew so big, that I lost control of it."

"Lies tend to do that, Kate," he says softly. She withdraws her forehead from his, and looks deeply into his eyes. Again – no tears, no pride, no arrogance, no sadness – just a resignation, instead.

"I wasn't exactly honest with you either, Kate," he tells her, easily offering her a peace branch that she knows she doesn't deserve. Yes, he withheld information from her – but not for his own benefit. He did it to save her.

Her withholding, on the other hand, had purely selfish motives.

" _Wait till you're ready."_

" _This is your life."_

" _If he is really the right one, he will wait."_

" _Who the hell makes cemetery confessions, anyway?"_

Yeah, she's had excuses galore, and – like any excuse - this excuse was spoken and acted out and believed for too long, until it became reality. Her reality.

"You didn't lie to me Rick," she offers finally. "We both withheld information for the same purpose. To protect me. You tried to protect me. And _I_ tried to protect me. That's selfish on so many levels."

"Kate –"

"Stop, Rick," she counters. "Don't let me off the hook. Not after I have pushed you away, held you at bay, all because I wanted things to be perfect. All because I wanted things in my life to line up just perfectly before I –"

"There's no such thing, Kate," he interrupts.

"I know that, now, Rick," she agrees. "There is always some challenge, some obstacle. Sometimes they are miniscule. Other times they are monstrously huge."

"And in your line of work, Kate," he agrees as well, "they are usually the size of Mount Everest."

"See – how can I ask you to join this?" she asks. "How can I ask you to step into this huge –"

"You don't ask," he interrupts. "You simply find someone who doesn't _need_ the invitation. You find someone who sees the challenge and embraces it. Revels in it. Volunteers for it. Not for the thrill. Not for the ride. No – just because of you. For you. You are worth it."

She doesn't know what to say. As usual, he has – with his vast expanse of words – captured what she feels and hopes, but has no words to articulate.

He lowers his head to hers yet again – touching foreheads. He can feel her breath on his face. It's a simple thing, but it's everything.

"We can do this Kate."

She raises her eyes to him again, and sees something entirely different. Not just love – but love wound around a small fire, a commitment. He knows what kind of storm he is signing up for. And he embraces it. She lowers her eyes, opening her mouth to ask the question. She doesn't get the chance.

"We can do this Kate," he repeats. "But it has to be we, not me – I can't do it on my own. Not anymore. In some fairy tale story I'd say _'Sure – I can wait forever_ '- But this is no fairy tale . . . Okay, so you're a princess, I will give you that," he smiles, "and of course, I'm the ruggedly handsome, dashing prince, so perhaps –"

The punch in the arm she gives him is light-hearted and heavy with intentions. He smiles, as he cups her hands into his.

"I can't do this -" he says, pointing back and forth between the two of them, "– whatever _this_ is, without you in it as well anymore," he tells her softly. "But I can do it _with_ you. And together, I'm guessing that we could do this really, really well."

He moves back, leaning into the cushions of the sofa, his back swallowed by their plushness. He crosses his leg, and watches her pull her legs up underneath her and lean towards him. His arm raises naturally to allow her entrance, cradling her head against his shoulder. For a few minutes they don't speak. He simply listens to the sound of her breathing in the quiet room.

Minutes later – they are fast asleep.

 _ **Wednesday, March 28, 2012 – 12:49 a.m. – Outside Cole Maddox's apartment in Lower Manhattan**_

Detective Javier Esposito steps off the elevator, and quickly gets his bearings. Walking toward apartment 4A, he is ready to knock on the door when he notices that it is already open, just slightly cracked. He nods absently, and opens the door slowly.

"Just me, C-Mark," he calls out, holding his hands up as a sign of surrender. He sees his friend approaching from the shadows. It is dark, as Maddox has all of the lights out in the apartment. The only inside light is from the microwave, and the external lighting from the windows offers nothing more than a dim glow. He turns to allow Marks to pat him down.

"Not necessary, Javi," Marks/Maddox tells him. "If you say you're not packing, I know you're not. You have never lied to me."

"And you have never lied to me," Javi tells him with a sad face as he turns back around to face his friend. "So tell me, what in the hell are you doing?" What has happened to you? And what is it about the Smith's that I don't know . . . that my partners don't know?"

"That's a lot of questions, Javi," Marks smiles. It's not a friendly smile, nor a menacing smile. Both men seem to dread the coming conversation. Marks is about to begin to answer when Javier asks one more question.

"Did you shoot Beckett last summer?" Esposito asks. He has to know. It makes a difference. It shouldn't. Not after what he has just seen hours ago. But it does.

"Yes," is the single-word reply. Marks eyes the detective coldly. It was a job. Nothing more. Esposito can't understand. But these two men were once very close. They don't lie to one another, even when the truth is awful. They find themselves on polar opposite sides of the playing field now, after being side by side for so long. Regardless, the foundation of their friendship remains intact.

"Why?" Esposito wonders, and now there is almost a pleading tone in his voice.

"Orders, Javi."

"You follow _those_ kind orders?" Javier asks. "That's just too simple. Someone gives you an order to kill an innocent human being and you just –"

You and I took an oath to follow those kind of orders, Javier," Marks says evenly, eyes darkening.

"Those were orders from our government," Javi thunders.

"Javi . . . my orders are still from our government."

Detective Javier Esposito feels the blood rushing from his face. He is light-headed, and manages to slump backwards into the nearby sofa.

"Yeah . . . I told you to stay out of this, Javi."


	18. Chapter 18

**Forty-Seven: Chapter 18**

 **DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe.

 _ **Wednesday, March 28, 2012 – 1:03 a.m. – At Cole Maddox's apartment in Lower Manhattan**_

A couple of minutes have passed since Cole Maddox – nee Cedric Marks – has uttered the words that have paralyzed Detective Javier Esposito. Two things dominate the detective's mind right now.

First – this totally explains why – after almost ten years of searching and searching – they have never been able to find out who killed Kate's mother. All this time they were looking for some local hood, possibly a gang leader; maybe a corrupt businessman or police officer. They have been so, so horribly wrong. Cedric taking his orders from the government means that someone in the military, or someone in the CIA or FBI – perhaps a corrupt national politician – someone much bigger than they have ever imagined is behind all of this. And those are the type of people who know how to hide their actions. Those people have made a career of doing whatever it takes to get whatever they need or want while staying invisible – untouchable.

The second thought is an extension of the first – and that is, now that Cedric has shared this information with Javier, he knows there is no way his old childhood friend can let him just walk out of this apartment. This is going to get ugly. Deadly ugly.

"I'm not sure I even know how to respond to that," Esposito finally tells his friend. He is both buying time and information. "You're saying that our government is behind all of this . . ."

"In a manner of speaking . . . unofficially . . . yes," Marks smiles, knowing that he is playing coy. He too, realizes that by sharing this information, he has signed a death warrant for one of them. He is already assessing Esposito, sizing up his old friend. There was a time when it was a fifty-fifty proposition as to which of them would win in a winner-take-all kind of combat. At the same time, he is looking for avenues – any avenues – of retreat. Any option of getting out of this apartment without a bloodbath with his old friend. His oldest friend.

"How are you involved?" Esposito asks. He too, is glancing around, gauging his surroundings. He is definitely on Marks' home turf. It doesn't intimidate him. He's been here before. His time on the NYPD force has taught him to reign in the killer instinct that was embedded in him during his time in the Army. However, he fully knows his life – tonight – depends on his ability to call up that instinct again.

"No one had any use for a wounded and suddenly available killer from an increasingly unpopular war," Marks says with a bit of disgust. "Unless I – like you – was ready to settle in with a position with a local police agency . . . which I was not."

"So you settle for life as a merc?" Esposito counters.

"The pay is noticeably better," his friend smiles menacingly.

Javier has slowly begun to straighten himself up on the sofa. His next move will quickly bring him to his feet. He knows the sudden movement will put Marks into combat mode, involuntarily unless he gives him a reason otherwise. Before that, however, there is one thing he needs to know. He plans on surviving this encounter, and this information may explain a few things.

"So, why Smith?" Esposito asks, placing his hands on his knees. The readying movement goes unnoticed by Marks. If he does notice, he isn't reacting.

"Smith?" Maddox laughs. "Mr. Michael Smith is not the innocent benefactor your little team probably thinks he is . . . excuse me . . . was."

"Enlighten me," Esposito replies.

"The Sen . . . my employer has a number of people within his employment, Javi, as you can probably imagine. I'm certainly not some lone agent at his disposal."

Esposito nods his head, and makes an exaggerated motion to look at his fingers, moving them as if trying to bring life into hands that have suddenly fallen asleep. He gazes back up at his friend, who continues.

"Everyone . . . Coonan, Lockwood, Montgomery, Smith . . . all of them – me included – have either been under his employ, or locked in some mutual agreement with him. Smith was no different."

"How was he involved?" Esposito asks.

"The better question, Javi, is _when_ did he become involved? And the answer is, from the very beginning."

Marks/Maddox cannot suppress the smile at the look of surprise on his friends face.

"That's right, Javi," Marks continues. "From the very beginning. Roy Montgomery was a rookie cop who came across a kidnapping scheme. While Roy was ultimately intrigued enough to join the party, initially his better nature took over. He saw the scheme and wanted to thwart it. When it became clear that he was not going to be able to do that – probably through threats from the other involved officers, I'd imagine, he took the next logical step for a rookie cop."

"IA?" Esposito laughs, and Marks laughs with him. Both know the folly of engaging Internal Affairs against fellow officers.

"No, Javi, not IA," Marks replies, still chuckling. "An attorney. He called his lawyer."

"Smith," Esposito nods, as the dominos now start falling.

"Smith and Roy were old friends, pre-dating Roy's joining the force," Marks/Maddox explains. "So when Roy wanted some guidance, some legal advice, he went to your Mr. Smith. Smith, however, saw this an opportunity for a little extra cash . . ."

"Do tell," Esposito spits out, following the train of thought.

"So while my employer received his cut of the take, he had to share it with a very ambitious lawyer who had decided that he, too, wanted a piece of the action. Smith was smart, though. From the beginning, he made it very clear that he had information on my employer. Should anything happen to Smith or his family then that information was going to be made public."

"So the deal Roy ended up cutting for Beckett's life –" Esposito begins, "was essentially the same deal that Smith had cut for his own life, years before."

"The exact same deal," Marks nods. "You always were a quick study, Javi."

"So all this time, Castle has thought that Roy sent this Smith guy files to keep the deal Roy had for Beckett intact . . ."

Javier lets the thought trail off, confident that Marks will pick up and finish the thought for him. He is not disappointed.

". . . all that time, it was actually Smith who had originally shared the files with Roy that Roy used to keep your detective alive," Marks replies with a smile. "I mean, if you want a series of files to keep the wolf at bay, who's going to have the better data – present the better story – a cop or a lawyer."

Esposito nods his head, watching the falling domino show continue.

"So when Montgomery was killed by Lockwood – let me stop there for a moment, Javi," Marks tells him. "It's important to me for you to know that I liked Roy. I wasn't the one who put him down. I actually argued for keeping Roy around. But – and here is the key – once you and your colleagues found out what Roy had been involved with all those years ago – well, buddy, you guys punched his death certificate then and there. My employer saw the benefit in keeping Roy around, even though he had temporarily lost control of your detective. But having your team find out the truth? No, Roy had to go at that point."

"Why kill Smith though?" Esposito asks, touching on the one flaw in the argument. "He's dead, and now those files he had are going to be made public. Your employer still loses."

"Cutting loose ends, Javi," Marks says simply, his tone matter-of-fact. "First of all, things are moving forward and loose ends, frayed ends . . . they have to be eliminated. Second – those files becoming public? I don't think that's going to happen," he smiles.

"You do know," Javi counters with a smirk of his own, "that you are one of those loose ends, C-Mark. One of these days, you're not going to be the hunter. You're going to be the hunted. What then?"

"Then . . . I take my chances," Marks tells him, now taking a step backward, allowing his friend to stand. He's still undecided over what is next, but his hand begins moving toward his back, where a serious looking knife is stashed in its sheath.

Esposito notices both movements – the step backwards and the hand motion – and uses the opportunity to stand up from the sofa.

"So . . . are we really going to do this?" Esposito asks the best friend he has ever had, readying himself for the attack he knows is coming.

"Give me an alternative, Javi," Marks tells him, and even in the dark, although he cannot really see his friend's eyes that well – Esposito can hear it in his voice. He's conflicted. There may be a way out of this after all. Then he remembers. This is the man who shot Beckett. For three months, no one heard a peep from Kate. For three months, Kate isolated herself from everyone, trying to heal. Three months later, she comes back, and she's still a mess. She's alienated from her team. From Castle. She suffers from PTSD. Javier knows what this is like, first-hand. All of this – because of his best friend standing in front of him.

"Wish I could, bro," Javier tells him sadly, and he can almost see the disappointed nod of the head from Cole Maddox in front of him. It's dark, so this will get interesting. And it's Marks' house, so this is a road game. His friend has the home field advantage.

" _You'll need it,"_ Javier notes mentally, _"because I was always a little better than you."_

Perhaps it is the darkness. Perhaps it is because Marks' is distracted – even only the slightest bit – but Javier's pile-driving front kick – aimed right at the groin of the mercenary assassin – lands in its intended location.

His military training keeps Marks on his feet for just a second – wobbly though they may be – but little training eliminates the shocking pain of a genital attack. Probably not fair – but as both men have learned from their Special Forces training – it is not about fair. It's about winning. At any and all cost.

Esposito does not give him a chance to recover. His next strike is an open palm blow to the neck. He uses the opportunity to grab Marks by the head, and pulls down, driving his knee into the man's forehead. Marks crumples with these final blows. Javier isn't going for a kill. The goal at this ungodly hour has been to survive. Get the information needed and get out alive. Plus, he doesn't have his service weapon, which he was forced to give up back at the hotel. He knows that his surprise attack would have ended the confrontation with any normal person. Cedric/Cole is not normal, by any stretch of the imagination.

Esposito reaches the door just in time, as he sees the man rising to his feet, the full anger now upon him.

"Quid pro quo, buddy," he tells him as he walks through the door, closing it behind him. "I will see you again."

Cole Maddox stares at the closed door for a second, then drops back to his knees, allowing his body to temporarily succumb to the attack.

"Count on it," Maddox says toward the door, promising himself that the kid gloves will be off the next time they see one another.


	19. Chapter 19

**Forty-Seven: Chapter 19**

 **DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe.

 **A/N:** I will be updating this story as I can, given current circumstances. Hopefully everyone understands. Thanks to all for reading and commenting. Most of all, thank you again to all of you who have offered prayers and best wishes for Dad. I've tried to respond directly to all of you, but if I have missed anyone, please forgive me.

God bless, and on to the story . . .

 _ **Wednesday, March 28, 2012 – 2:01 a.m. – At the Hotel Sanctuary in Manhattan**_

Detective Javier Esposito steps off the elevator on the top floor, and walks toward his room. He once again marvels at the generosity of Richard Castle. Having the means to do something like this is impressive, of course. Having the heart to actually do it? Beyond impressive.

He opens his door, walking into the dark room and decides to leave the lights off. He's tired, he's worn out, and the adrenaline rush required for his fight and flight session with Cole Maddox has long dissipated. Now he's feeling the natural weariness that comes in the aftermath. He gazes at the sofa, and mentally shakes his head, continuing on – by instinct – to the bedroom. Not bothering with discarding his shoes, shirt, pants – he falls forward onto the bed. He starts drifting but remembers Castle. He needs to get a message to the writer.

He fumbles behind him, along the pockets on his hips, searching for his phone. Finding it, he pulls up Castle's number and begins typing.

 _JAVIER: Need to talk. First thing in the morning. Nothing is as it seems/seemed. Your eyes only Castle. I'm trusting you on this one._

As he falls asleep, he is focused on one particular sentence that Cedric Marks shared with him back at the apartment. It was a small slip up, but as Javier re-thinks things, he also realizes that Castle – although wrong about Smith and his whole role in this mess – Castle was spot on about the potential identity of the man behind this

Marks' words ring softly to him as he drifts off.

" _The Sen . . . my employer has a number of people within his employment, Javi."_

The Sen . . . Sen . . . Senator. He works for the government. A United States Senator. He shakes his head, and smiles his way into dreamland.

 _ **Wednesday, March 28, 2012 – 4:13 a.m. – At Jim Beckett's NYC Apartment**_

Click.

Cole Maddox smiles, once again amazed at both how easily he is able to break a lock, and how few locks New Yorkers put on their flimsy doors. Chuckling at man's tendency to opt for the more trusting view, he silently acknowledges that what he is doing is way outside his normal MO. But in his mind, 'that bitch Beckett' deserves this. His orders were to leave the detective alone. Fine. He's a soldier first and foremost. He obeys orders.

That particular order, however, does not extend to her father.

He's still smarting from the beat-down given to him by Javier Esposito. He's always wondered who would be the better between them in a face-off, in a direct conflict. Esposito surprised him, and the Latino's quick strike capability was always the wild-card in Marks' mind. It took him a good fifteen minutes to fully recover from that initial kick to the groin. He has to give it to his old friend. Marks' believes that he has more staying power than Esposito, and the longer a match with him goes, the more into Marks' favor the match tilts. He just needs to survive that first opening barrage. Then he can wear his friend down. A cat playing with its mouse.

He pushes the thoughts out of his mind as he slowly enters the darkened apartment, and makes his way down the hallway. Reaching into his pocket, he carefully pulls out the small syringe and needle and makes his way into the first bedroom. He believes this will be the guest room, but has to make sure. He slowly opens the door and sees the empty bed. Smiling, he closes the door and almost glides down the hallway to the second – and final – bedroom.

He opens the door slightly, finding the snoring form of Jim Beckett laying in the bed, covered by a sheet and blanket. Seconds later, Jim's eyes startle open momentarily, as he awakens with start. Maddox's left hand easily covers Jim's mouth, while plunging the short needle into the man's neck. Once in, he pushes the entire dosage into Kate Beckett's father.

The quick acting drug does its work, as less than ten seconds later, Jim Beckett slumps back into a very different kind of sleep. Maddox easily lifts the thin man onto his shoulders and carries him back to the front of the apartment where he has left the laundry cart. It's a large and deep cart, the kind you see being pushed in larger hotels. Dumping the body into the cart he slowly makes his way out of the apartment and down the hall. At this hour there is no one wandering the halls. He follows the hallway to the garbage shoot, and suppresses a chuckle as he dumps the contents – Jim Beckett – into the shoot, for a one story drop into the dumpster below.

"Bon voyage," he smiles, as the body descends with a slight echo bouncing along the inner walls back up to him.

He whistles as he walks toward the elevator and punches the first floor. Getting off the elevator, he walks out of the apartment complex in the side entrance and finds the garbage dumpster with Jim Beckett's body. Checking for a pulse to make sure the man is still alive and functioning, he smiles as he lifts the body and carries it less than ten feet to the waiting vehicle parked in the alley. He glances up and waves at the surveillance camera that he had already covered with black tape. They'll never see this.

This time the car is a black Lexus RX300. Not exactly the Ford sedan, but he knows that they are looking for the Ford. This car won't attract their attention. He guns his car to life and then pulls away, heading south toward the tunnel with his package in tow.

 _ **Wednesday, March 28, 2012 – 4:55 a.m. – At the Green-Wood Cemetery in Brooklyn**_

Cole Maddox is barely breathing hard at all, as he approaches Johanna Beckett's row of headstones. He carries a slumping Jim Beckett in a large, canvas bag. The ten minute walk with his package has been no more difficult than a few of the carry-out rescues he's had to perform when deployed in combat situations with fellow soldiers slumped across his shoulders.

He gazes ahead at the large hole he arranged through a funeral home to have dug yesterday morning, just a few plots down from Johanna Beckett. The fresh grave is still roped off. Anyone viewing it will think it to be part of preparations for an imminent burial.

"Not too far from the truth," he chuckles to himself, taking the last ten to fifteen steps and bending over to lay the still unconscious Jim Beckett onto the ground. He thinks for a second, and then decides to leave him in the canvas. He isn't expecting anyone out here – not at his hour. The sun is still an hour and a half from rising. There isn't even a bird chirping out here.

He jogs this time, making the ten minute walk in less than six minutes. He opens the trunk/hatchback door of the RX 300 and pulls out a large box. It's about four feet long and two feet wide, with a handle. Retrieving the box, he walks back to the new gravesite, glancing down at Jim Beckett's still body. He takes down the rope around the hole, and drags Jim's body to the edge of the hole. He jumps down into the hole, smiling that no one seems to have paid attention to the roped off area. Why would anyone pay attention? He had gone through a funeral home to set up the excavation, and ensured that it is only five feet deep. No need to make this too difficult.

At six feet tall, his head is a full foot above the lip of the whole, and he drags Beckett's body into the hole. Then he pulls the box he has retrieved from the car into the hole with him. He unwraps Jim's body from the canvas and lays him out on the long board he had placed in the hole previously. Opening the box, he slowly begins to assemble the make-shift, field IV-stand and unit. Child's play, from his time working for Uncle Sam officially.

Minutes later, he turns on the IV unit, connected to the small battery pack he has brought. He sticks Jim Beckett in the arm, stabilizes the needle with tape, and starts the flow of propofol into Jim's system. Smiling, he walks to the opposite end of the hole, and sits down, closing his eyes and taking a series of deep breaths.

Opening his eyes, he smiles. He can't take the detective. Not yet. But he can take her father, if the whim strikes him. And he can take the writer. That will hurt her. He injured her heart last summer. Time to break it completely.

He glances at his watch. It's 5:27 in the morning. Good enough. He wants them sleepy, groggy. They won't be on their A-game. Especially Javi.

Taking out his phone, he enters the phone number for Kate Beckett, and begins typing his message, smiling.

"Come to papa, detective," he says aloud with a smirk, then breaks into laughter as he recognizes the duality of his statement.


	20. Chapter 20

**Forty-Seven: Chapter 20**

 **DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe.

 _ **Wednesday, March 28, 2012 – 5:47 a.m. – At the Hotel Sanctuary in Manhattan**_

Detective Kate Beckett awakens, startled by the intermittent chirping on her phone. It's been quacking at her for the past fifteen to twenty minutes, and initially she has mistaken it for her alarm. Getting her bearings, the first thing she notices is that she is not at home. The second thing she notices is there is a man – a fairly large man – sitting next to her on . . . yes, she has fallen asleep on a couch.

Quickly the previous night comes back to her, and she smiles, softly at first, but then it grows legs and broadens across her face.

" _Damn, slept way too soundly,"_ she thinks to herself, and then asks the natural question: "What's wrong with a good night's sleep?"

Thinking about the man half lying and half sitting next to her, she smiles - admitting that he has a great impact on her - whether she wants to admit it or not. She's fought it for so long. It's a wonderful moment.

The moment is short-lived.

She glances down at her phone and sees the text message. The phone number is completely unknown to her. That's brings her the first moment of dread. Reading the message brings the second.

" _Beckett. This is . . . well, you know who I am. I gave you a little heartache last summer. And now I have your dad."_

Her hands are shaking, and she stands quickly, rustling Castle awake in the process. He doesn't notice anything wrong. After all, it's not even six o'clock in the morning, and he's running on just more than a few hours of sleep and a ton of stress. He stands, looking for his phone as he hears an intermittent vibration. Someone has either called him or texted him. He grabs his phone and then glances over at Kate. Now he realizes that something is wrong. It's not the way her brow is crinkled. It's not the way she bites her lip.

It's her hands. They are trembling.

He walks toward her, approaching from behind. If she realizes he is there, she doesn't let on. So he glances over her shoulder, reading the messages with her.

" _. . . I have your dad."_

If blood really did boil . . . He is furious, both with Maddox, and with himself. He should have pushed harder for Kate to get her dad here with them. She had called last night, but unknown to her, Jim Beckett had turned his phone off. It had been one of those long days for him as well, and by 9pm, he was sound asleep in bed. He should have pushed her harder to go to his apartment, even though she knows how the man clings fiercely to his independence.

Kate Beckett has slowly walked toward the window, Castle taking each step with her, silently. The curtains are drawn closed, further illuminating her cell phone, and the heart-stopping message. She scrolls down, her finger trembling, reading more.

" _I've heard that you are a pretty good fighter. We'll see about that, Detective."_

Fear is slowly turning to anger, as she reads the bold, brash text messages from a truly psychotic man. Maybe this guy was a different person years ago when he and Javier were friends. But that man – if he ever existed – is long gone.

She reads the final text message, frowning in anger.

" _If you want to see your dad again, you first have to find him. Here's your first clue. I've got him in a familiar place, surrounded by nature. Very peaceful. Come and find us."_

Now, for the first time she realizes who is hovering over her shoulder, reading with her. He senses her realization and begins to move backwards, giving her some privacy. He is pleasantly surprised when she turns to him.

"Do you think he . . . how would he have found dad's cabin?" she asks him.

Castle has come to the same conclusion that she has – someplace familiar, peaceful. A place she recovered. Surrounded by nature. Somehow he has found Jim Beckett's cabin. Then again, if his goal was to take her father, then finding out about his cabin would probably be child's play.

"It appears he did," Castle agrees. "We should bring everyone in on this. Come up with a game plan that will –"

"No, Castle," Kate gently chides. "This is my fight, my life, my dad. I won't risk –"

"Kate," he interrupts, "this is the exact reason I foolishly went behind your back and made a deal for your life. Because of this right here. You will go off half-cocked, on your own, walking into a trap. No. I won't allow it. I won't stand by and let you do that."

With that, he takes out his phone, and pulls up Javier Esposito's contact information. He once again reads the detective's text message to him from a few hours earlier, and nods his head. Everyone had wondered where Javier Esposito had gone after turning in his badge and weapons – which of course, Captain Gates refused to accept. In her mind, Detective Esposito simply walked out of a hotel forgetting his equipment. She may write him up on it. She may not.

Castle, however, had a very good idea where his friend had gone. In Castle's mind, if the two men were good friends, the chances that Javier couldn't find him – couldn't call him – well, that's preposterous. No, Castle figured that Javier was having one of those 'off the books' clandestine pow-wows with his friend. That's exactly how he would have written it. And turning in his badge and guns made it a non-sanctioned event, precinct-wise.

So yeah, if Javi needs to talk, then he has found something. Something important. He punches the detective's number. Seconds later, a groggy Esposito answers the phone.

"Rise and shine, tough guy," Castle remarks, drawing a string of expletives in Spanish from the awakening detective.

"Someone better have died," Esposito replies, wiping the sleep from his eyes.

"You tell me," Castle half-whispers. "Is he still alive?"

Esposito pauses for a few seconds, confirming Castle's theory. Finally, realizing that there is no use denying where he went, he answers.

"Yes, he is. And I'm going to have to be more careful around you, aren't I?"

"Not possible, Javi," Castle snickers. "Seriously though, I need you to come here. Things have hit the fan here, and I know you said for my eyes only, but I got to tell you, Javi, I'm so done with secrets. That's why we have been so easy to fool, so easy to avoid these past years for these folks. None of us ever has the full picture. You have a piece, Kate has a piece, Kevin has a piece, I have one – and we all hold fast to our little secrets. Well, no more. Get your butt in here, ex-soldier. We've got work to do."

He then turns to Kate, who is still staring at her phone, coming up with option after option, none of which sound promising.

"Kate," he calls to her, as she turns to face him. "C'mon, let's go grab your stuff from your room and bring it back here so you can freshen up. We've got an early morning ahead of us."

She cocks her head at him for a moment, and he briefly considers that maybe he is pushing too much. He slams such thoughts out of his head. Her way hasn't worked. Time to try something different.

"I'm coming with you," he continues, trying his best to give her a stern look. "I don't want to let you out of my sight, or Javi or Kevin's sight. This could easily be a ploy to get you alone, and finish the job they started last summer."

She nods her head – surprisingly – and walks toward the door. She turns with a smile.

"Coming?" she asks. She doesn't have to ask twice. A few seconds later, they are in her suite, and Castle politely waits at the door while she gets her things. Then realizing that the whole reason he is there is to help her in case someone is in her room, he quickly walks into her bedroom and stands at the door, watching her through the open door of the bathroom.

She comes out with a bag of items and toiletries, and smiles when she sees him. She grabs a couple of hangars with clothes, and a pair of shoes.

"Hold these?" she asks, giving him the shoes. She then walk out of the room, with him following close behind. When they get to her front door and open the door, Javier Esposito is in the hallway walking past her door towards Castle's suite.

"Javi?" she asks, pleased to see her old friend and partner.

"Hey Beckett," Esposito smiles, wondering how much of his little ploy from last night he is going to have to explain to her.

"Javi's headed to my room," explains Castle. "You have things to tell him, and he has things to tell you."

The three friends walk into Castle's suite seconds later, and Kate heads straight toward the bathroom in Castle's bedroom, drawing a smirk from the writer. Pushing those thoughts away – at least for now – he turns to Esposito.

"So, talk," he tells his friend.

"We're after a senator," Javier tells him. "I don't know if it is a state senator or a U.S. Senator, but he slipped up and almost said the word. But that's what he was saying. He tried to catch himself by calling him his employer, or some bullshit. But he slipped up and said 'Sen' – as in Senator. So – I figure between you, me and Kevin – one of us gets the joy of doing a lengthy database search to find out the identity of our mystery man."

"We're looking for someone who probably held some type of political office, locally, at the time of Johanna Beckett's murder," Castle muses aloud, his mind now writing different scenarios and discarding them just as quickly.

"That's how I see it too, bro," Esposito tells him. "That being the case, my bet is at the national level, not the state level."

Castle nods, excitement growing in him at the chance of finally getting ahead of the curve for once in this matter. Then the matter of Cole Maddox pops up again. The pain in his arm is a reminder that the man is still out there.

"So," Castle begins, "the two of you sat down over a cup of tea, a couple of beers, and he just volunteered this information."

"More like a kick to the nuts, bro," Javi smiles, bringing a wincing laugh from Castle.

"Low blow, dude," Castle smirks.

"Life or death, bro," Esposito tells him. "There are no rules except survive."

Seeing the confused look on Castle's face, Javier explains himself more succinctly.

"You don't understand, Castle," he begins. "A fight with Cedrick Marks isn't your local bar room brawl, where a few guys get tanked too far and friends and fellow drinkers break it up and everyone has drinks afterward. No, a fight with C-Marks is a death match. Rarely does someone walk away. I didn't have my weapons, so the longer the fight went, the more likely that he would simply run out of gas against his friend, who had a reputation for wearing opponents down."

Esposito stops talking, offering a gaze down the hallway to make sure Alexis or Martha have not awakened. Then he continues.

"Anyway, I got what I wanted – what we needed. Information. As in who is behind all of this. We should be looking for a senator, as I said."

"Why would you want me not to tell Kate?" Castle asks. This is about her. Why would they keep it from her? Why would Esposito tell him that this was for his eyes only?

"You can – now that I have told you, and you and I have talked about it," Esposito replies. "Beckett is a consummate professional, except when it comes to this particular case, and you know it. You know she gets the tiniest lead and she will go off, half-cocked and get someone shot. We - as in all of us – need to sit together and come up with a plan – and all of us need to stick to it. Too many people have been killed by this guy – or by those he hires."

Seconds later, Kate walks back into the living room and sees her two friends standing together, looking ominous. She is – once again - relieved to see Esposito, since he had left the hotel until less than ideal circumstances hours ago.

"Kate," Javier tells her, "we need to talk."

"Understatement of the century," Castle remarks with a smile.


	21. Chapter 21

**Forty-Seven: Chapter 21**

 **DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe.

 _ **Wednesday, March 28, 2012 – 7:12 a.m. – On the way to Jim Beckett's Cabin in Upstate New York**_

The chopper hovers over the small cabin, whipping the tree branches into a frenzy as Harry Edwards pilots the craft downward, looking for the most level spot for a landing. No, it is not the most silent entry ever, she realizes, but Detective Kate Beckett has a singular focus right now, and that is not to go to bed tonight having no parents.

Detective Javier Esposito is with her in the back seat of the helicopter, his rifle pulled as he stares down at the scene below him. Bile rises in the back of her throat, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm that matches his as both can clearly see the blood stains indicating someone has been dragged from the front yard, up the porch and into the door. It's an awful lot of blood.

"We're clear," Edwards shouts as the chopper touches down, but both Esposito first, followed by Kate Beckett have already launched themselves out of the aircraft while it was still five feet above the ground. Javier Esposito has looked into the eyes of Cedric Marks, and there is only a flicker of the man he once knew there. No, in those eyes he saw Cole Maddox, the identity he has created for him since the war. Part of a man or woman dies in a war, on the various battlefields. For Cedric Marks, it appears it was a very large part.

Protocol be damned, Esposito bursts into the living room straight through the front door, low and rolling to his left side, while Kate Beckett comes straight in, toward the right. Both are met with a gruesome sight.

In the middle of the floor lies a large buck, dark blank eyes staring toward the side window. On the wall – written in the unfortunate animal's blood – is another message.

 _Strike 1_

"Dammit to hell," Esposito shouts loudly, as Kate runs to check the only other room in the cabin. She is in the bedroom in seconds.

"Clear!" he hears her yell, then watches her return. Her face is a mixture of relief and fury.

"What kind of monster is –"

"Shut up, Beckett," Esposito mutters, interrupting and startling Kate with his intensity. He walks past her through the front door, taking his cell phone out of a compartment in his vest as he climbs through the open door to the chopper. Seconds later, Kate boards the craft as well, watching the scene below grow smaller as they lift off. She hears Esposito shouting over the engine.

"No dice, bro," he tells him. He doesn't hear Kevin Ryan's reply as the phone goes dead on the other end.

 _ **Wednesday, March 28, 2012 – 7:16 a.m. – In a cab driving through Manhattan**_

Kevin Ryan hangs up the phone, disgusted, turning his head to face his fellow passenger in the back seat of the fast moving cab.

"No luck," he tells Richard Castle, who now has his head resting forward in both hands.

"Okay," he begins, the frustration clearly visible in his voice. "Think, dammit! We tried the swing sets, although I don't know how he'd know about that. We tried the bench in Central Park I know she often goes to just to relax."

"This guy seems to know everything," Ryan replies, now glancing out the window. Now they are speeding to their third selection, when Castle slams his open palm on the window pane separating them from the driver, startling the cabbie.

"Driver, turn around!" Castle yells, then turns to Detective Ryan.

"I should have thought about this, I should have seen this," he tells Ryan excitedly. "Man oh man, have I been blind or what!"

"What is it, Castle?" Ryan asks. It's good to see the writer excited, more like his normal self. Especially now during these days. But it would be nice to know what there is to be all upbeat about.

"Yesterday afternoon, Beckett and I had a . . . well, a fallout of sorts," Castle begins, trying to figure out exactly how to tell this story. Because a story that begins with _"Hey Kevin, I've spent the last couple of years making trips to the cemetery to talk to Beckett's dead mother,"_ . . . well, that isn't going to go over too well.

Problem is, that's the truth.

"Long story short, I ended up at the cemetery – the cemetery where Johanna Beckett is buried." Castle is almost amused by the confused and bewildered face that greets him from Detective Ryan.

"Don't ask, okay?" Castle warns before continuing. "While I was there, Kate showed up. But before she showed up, I noticed a new burial hole had been dug and roped off. It was just a few plots down from Johanna's grave site. I never thought anything about it because – well, hell, that's what you see at a cemetery, right? Preparations for someone's burial."

Turning his attention to the cab driver, Castle gives him new instructions.

"Green-Wood Cemetery in Brooklyn – You have to go through the tunnel down –"

"I know where it is," the cabbie remarks dryly. He's wondering what kind of tip he's going to get for these two nutjobs who clearly don't know where they are going.

Ignoring the driver, Castle continues his story.

"Maddox said this is a place familiar to Kate. A place that is peaceful, surrounded by nature. Well, there is no better place that describes that than –"

"Than her mother's gravesite," Detective Ryan chimes in, nodding and smiling. The smile quickly disappears as both men simultaneously realize the potential plan that Maddox has for Jim Beckett.

"You don't think he'd bury him alive, do you?" Ryan asks Castle.

"How should I know?" Castle replies. "I only got shot by the bastard! This is more up Javi's department than it is . . ."

He cuts himself off, knowing how unfair the statement, the sentiment is. It's not Esposito's fault. Although he does have a question to ask the man. He's wondering why he let him get away. Yeah, he wanted to get out of there to save his own life. He didn't think he could stand up to the man for an extended bout. But is it really that simple?

He pushes the thought out of his mind, picking up his phone and placing a call back to the Precinct. One ring, two rings, and then she answers.

"Mr. Castle," Captain Victoria Gates greets him, recognizing the caller ID. "I assume you are calling regarding our little database search?"

"Yes . . . yes, sir," he replies, still uncomfortable with calling a woman 'sir'.

"Interesting, in that you might be on to something here," she remarks quickly. "However, the problem is we are finding a few possibilities."

"Do tell," he says, glancing at Kevin Ryan. He has the call on speakerphone so that the detective can listen in.

"There is a State Senator Ralph Blackman, from upstate who was a mayor's aide during the time of Johanna Beckett's death. Then there is a Julia Henderson, who is a U.S. Senator from Connecticut who served as a city councilwoman here in New York City at that time. And finally, there is Senator William Bracken, who was the assistant district attorney at the time of the death of Beckett's mother. And I have to tell you two – I assume Detective Ryan is listening in?"

"Yes, sir," Ryan says quickly.

"Good," she continues, "So Mr. Castle won't have to repeat himself. I have to tell you both, I hope to heaven it isn't Bracken, because word is he is prepping himself for a presidential run in 2016."

The two men are quiet, contemplating this latest news, when Castle finally speaks up.

"It's Bracken," Castle says suddenly. "Captain Gates, thanks for this information. I'll fill you in when we get there. We will get back to you, shortly," he tells her before hanging up quickly.

"Uh, Castle . . . man, she does not like that. Quick hang-ups."

"Kevin, she'll get over it," Castle dismisses with a wave of his hand. "Bigger fish to fry, my man – beginning with just what in the world do we do if I am right, and Cole Maddox is at the cemetery waiting for us?"

"We deal with that when we get there," Ryan tells him. "I'm already texting Javi. He and Beckett are in the air upstate but coming back here quickly. They should be at the cemetery in about thirty minutes."

"We'll beat them there pretty easily," Castle muses aloud, now wondering how he and Kevin Ryan are going to handle an ex-Special Forces soldier who – in the last twelve plus hours – is one and one against Javier Esposito.

"Yeah," is all Kevin Ryan says in response, as he changes the topic of conversation, "More pertinent right now, Castle, is why you immediately came to the conclusion that Senator Bracken is the guy behind all of Kate's problems?"

For Kevin Ryan, Castle's statement was a punch in the gut. Both Kevin and Jenny are huge Bracken fans, having long ago bought into the charismatic leader's visionary approach. Learning that this man is potentially a monster . . .

"Process of elimination," Castle says quickly. If I'm writing a story about a corrupt official who willingly involves himself with mob ransom and blackmail, I have to ask which of these people is more likely to come across such a scenario. A mayor's aide? Doubtful. A city councilwoman? Possibly. An assistant district attorney? Bingo! Collect your $200 as you pass go. Fits the profile much better."

"I don't know, Castle -" the detective begins to argue. Castle cuts him off.

"Second reason, and just as good for me," Castle tells him, "Blackman? He comes from money. The Blackman family isn't Trump rich, but they aren't crying on the corner either. Henderson? She –"

"Her family is filthy rich," Ryan nods in agreement, and he is now starting to understand a bit more about the Castle mindset. He admits he has to give props to the man for how quickly he processes things and comes up with his conclusions – and how accurate those conclusions are when he isn't being silly and throwing out zombie and vampire solutions.

"That eliminates those two as possibilities of someone needing money so badly that they jump into a kidnapping ring of organized crime figures. Get caught with that and that's a death sentence – and probably a nasty one. So that leaves our friend Bracken. He doesn't come from money, and he has always made his ability to run a campaign without heavy contributions – at least visible ones – has always left a question with some people. It's good in that he doesn't owe any special interest groups – hence his appeal to a lot of people. But he's not rich, so where does his money come from? It had to come from somewhere, initially."

Kevin Ryan considers the logic, and sadly finds no fault there. Both men are quiet for the next five or so minutes as they rush through the tunnel onto Long Island. Minutes later they are pulling up to the familiar spires that Castle had walked under just yesterday.

Exiting the cab, Detective Ryan looks over at his companion.

"You ready to do this?" he asks Castle, who nods excitedly and walks ahead of him into the cemetery.


	22. Chapter 22

**Forty-Seven: Chapter 22**

 **DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe.

 _ **Wednesday, March 28, 2012 – 7:48 a.m. – Back at Green Wood Cemetery**_

The two men cautiously approach Johanna Beckett's gravesite. Both sets of eyes warily scan the trees around them. Castle cannot help but flashback to a different cemetery, in plain daylight. Not in the early morning hours such as this one. He gazes out in the distance at headstones and sees a reflection. The familiar crack of the discharged weapon springs him into action. Unfortunately, the memory is all too real . . . and seconds later Detective Kevin Ryan is sprawled on the ground, roughly handled by Richard Castle who has wrestled him to the ground.

"Castle! What the hell . . ." the detective manages to spurt out, trying to get the heavier man off of him.

"Sorry, Kevin," Castle says sheepishly, finally rolling off the smaller man. For a minute I was back at Roy's funeral and my mind played a trick on me and . . . hell, I'm sorry man," he tells him, his face reddening with embarrassment.

The two men find themselves chuckling in amusement as they lift themselves off the ground, dusting off leaves and grass.

"You do realize we are sitting ducks out here," Castle finally manages to get out between chuckles.

"I try not to think about it," Detective Ryan tells him, and he continues offering quick glances around, taking in their surroundings. He points about twenty yards away at the new burial site – still roped off, waiting for its patron to be placed there.

The men approach with even greater caution, walking more slowly than before. They pass by Johanna Beckett's grave, still slowly. Kevin Ryan glances over at the headstone, reading the name as he passes. So much pain because of the death of one woman.

Richard Castle passes next, and offers a quick greeting.

"Me again, Johanna," Castle tell hers as he passes by, his eyes fixated on the large, empty hole now only some ten yards away.

Ryan reaches the edge first, and glances in. He can't resist a whistle of surprise.

"Right again, Castle," he tells him, taking a last quick glance around before sliding down into the large hole. Castle follows and watches the detective approach the unconscious father of Detective Kate Beckett. He is sitting upright, legs out in the upper left corner of the hole. Next to him is what – from his vantage point – appears to be a portable IV unit.

His hands are tied, as are his feet, and his mouth is taped shut. No opportunity for escape or even alerting anyone. The only chance he has is if someone passes by and happens to look in.

Like now.

Ryan puts his hand against the elder Beckett's neck and smiles.

"Got a pulse," he tells Castle, who nods in relief. Immediately, he pulls out his cell phone and dials 911. Seconds later, he is relaying their position in the cemetery, and a brief description of what he thinks has happened. He has to repeat himself because – admittedly – it's not often that an emergency response operator takes a call regarding a victim in a grave connected to an IV. Minutes later, he hangs up and returns his attention to Detective Ryan.

For the next minute or so, Castle watches as Ryan unties the man's hands and feet, having to study for a moment the strange knots used to hold Jim Beckett captive. Last, he pulls the tape away from the man's mouth. As expected, that does not awaken him, as the drugs in his system keep him under. Suddenly Castle's face changes, as if realizing something critically important. Seconds later, he launches himself into the hole, startling Ryan.

"Now what?" Ryan interjects agitatedly. "You were supposed to stay up there," he says, glancing from Castle to the top of the hole. Now if anyone approaches, they really _are_ sitting ducks. And Ryan can see the fear in his friend's eyes.

"The IV," Castle says, pointing to the setup and walking toward Ryan and the prostrate Jim Beckett, who Ryan has laid out flat. It's not an infinite supply of whatever sedative has been used to keep Jim under. It needs to be refilled, reset."

Now Ryan gets it, and for a quick moment he feels the claustrophobic fear tighten around him. He's in a grave hole, and his only backup has jumped into the damn hole with him. He's got an unconscious Jim Beckett with him in who-knows-what kind of shape. And Castle is right. Someone has to be close by. Someone has been giving him this sedative. He doesn't know if it is hourly, every half hour, every few hours – he's no doctor or nurse. All he knows is that someone has to be monitoring this.

"Can you take that off him?" Castle asks, pointing to the IV inserted into Jim's hand.

"Do I look like a nurse to you, Castle?" an exasperated Kevin Ryan asks. Castle can't blame him. The plan had been for one of them to get into the hole and the other to remain out as lookout. He's blown it, yeah, but then he finally notices.

"Kevin," Castle tells him, "this hole isn't that deep."

"What?" Ryan asks, and quickly glances around and sees what Castle is talking about.

"For some reason, this thing is maybe five feet deep," Castle continues. "I can climb out of here," he says, as he reaches up and pulls himself up – and promptly falls back into the hole, his backside smacking hard on the ground. Evidently it's a little harder to pull oneself up with a gunshot wound in the arm. It is a picture of comedy that Kevin Ryan will kid him about for a long, long time – if they get out of this alive.

His second try is more successful, as Ryan gives his friend a slight boost – physically – to help propel Castle out of the grave.

Once again, Castle winces as he brushes the dirt and leaves off of his clothes, and stands up right. Glancing down at Kevin Ryan again, he is about to speak when he hears the tell-tale sounds of an approaching helicopter. He smiles, knowing that this is Esposito and Kate. Either that, or he is about to witness the first helicopter body-drop into a cemetery. He chuckles to himself, mentally noting the scenario for a future novel.

As the chopper approaches and flies overhead, Castle gives a thumbs-up, hoping that Kate sees it, and understands that her dad is here and – as far as they can tell – okay.

 _ **Wednesday, March 28, 2012 – 7:57 a.m. – Hovering above Green Wood Cemetery**_

Kate Beckett cannot contain the relief she feels as she sees Richard Castle giving a thumbs up, and then seeing her father lying in the grave with Kevin Ryan beside him as they fly over. Javier Esposito – on the other hand – is scanning the grounds from this high vantage point.

Esposito has never really doubted that they would find Jim Beckett alive. He knows Cedric, and he knows his military mind. Kidnapping and playing hide and seek games? That isn't Cedric. No, Cedric is more the hunt and kill type. What they saw back at the Smith home? That direct approach is more like Cedric. So this has all been a ruse. A ploy to keep them running while Cedric puts another play into motion. He had tried to tell the team this earlier, but Kate, Castle and Kevin all reacted precisely the way Marks wanted them to.

Now Javier is searching, wondering if the man is here. He doubts it. His guess is that Marks is back in the city somewhere, laying a trap for them. Or him. Or her.

"Dammit, he even has me running in circles now," he thinks to himself.

Seconds pass, and the chopper has returned and is now slowly descending. The chopper touches down and Kate hops out quickly. She glances back at her estranged partner – knowing the friction between the two friends right now.

"You coming?" she asks.

"No," is his single word reply. He then turns his gaze to the pilot in the front seat.

"Get us out of here, Harry," he tells the pilot, who simply nods, pulls back and launches the aircraft skyward.

 _ **Wednesday, March 28, 2012 – 8:01 a.m. – Back on the ground at the Green Wood Cemetery**_

Richard Castle lets out a grunt as he pulls Jim Beckett upward, out of the hole. His right arm is on fire and he is blinking back tears he doesn't realize are there. Kate Beckett had climbed into the hole – both Castle and Ryan had agreed that Castle having to climb back out of the hole was a non-starter. So Kate had been selected – by default – to help prop her father up for Castle to pull out of the hole.

One final heave brings the elder Beckett safely out of the make-shift grave. When the two detectives have pulled themselves out of the hole, their gazes simultaneously fall on Castle's sweat-soaked brow. He is breathing hard and obviously favoring the arm.

"Rick?" Kate asks, concerned. He glances at his two friends with a forced smile, then looks around.

"Where is Javi?" he asks.

"Didn't stick around," a momentarily dejected Kate Beckett tells him, but she quickly recovers. She has her dad back – a development that, deep in her heart, she did not believe would happen. She is not going to let anything or anyone get her down in this moment.

"Beckett? Castle?" Detective Ryan asks.

"What's up, Kev?" Castle manages between gasps, as he is finally getting his breath back.

"Just something we should consider," Ryan begins, glancing around at their surroundings. "While I'm glad Jim is okay and all, and our emergency team is on the way . . ."

"What is it, Kevin?" Kate asks.

"It's just that . . . well, for almost a year, we didn't know who shot you, Kate," Ryan continues, running a hand through his hair. "This guy was playing it close to the vest – hide and seek. We had no clue who he was and he worked hard to keep it that way. Now? All of the sudden, it doesn't matter to him that we know who he is, who knows where he lives. He's out in the open, taunting us, making a game of this. It's almost as though . . ."

He lets the thought trail off, and seconds later, it is Castle who picks up on the thought as they hear the sirens getting closer.

". . . It's almost as though he knows this is the last act, the last chapter," Castle says with a bit of a frightened edge to his voice, "and he wants to go out with a bang."


	23. Chapter 23

**Forty-Seven: Chapter 23**

 **DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe.

 _ **Wednesday, March 28, 2012 – 9:07 a.m. – At New York Methodist Hospital in Brooklyn**_

Kate Beckett sits with Richard Castle in her father's room on the fourth floor where Jim Beckett has just been admitted. She has been assured that he will be fine – he's being kept for the day as a precaution simply because of his age. The doses of propofol were – fortunately – administered properly, and the elder Beckett simply enjoyed some much needed sleep, along with a few bruises.

She leans against his shoulder, and he finds comfort in their closeness. He marvels at the past twenty or so hours, thinking about how much his life – her life – all of their lives have changed in less than the time it takes the earth to make one full rotation.

Smiling at his inner nerd self, Castle softly tightens his arm around her, and smiles more broadly as he hears her sigh in contentment. For the second time in less than a day, she has dozed off under his embrace. It's something he could get used to.

He knows that all is not well. Sure, her dad is safe. But Cole Maddox slash Cedric Marks is still out there, and so far, the man seems to be a step or two ahead of them at every point. More, he now believes they have found their man – Senator William Bracken.

He has yet to share this information with Kate. Getting her dad out of the cemetery and into the ambulance, rushed here to this hospital just blocks away from the cemetery, watching her nervous fidgeting through the tests . . . well, let's just say that Detective Beckett – for the moment – had reached her limit. He recognized this right away, and decided to hold off until a more opportune time. Knowing the tenacity with which she approaches her mother's case, he hopes he is doing the right thing. He isn't planning on holding this information for months . . . no, he has learned his lesson. But he wants to give her a few hours – maybe a day.

He glances over at the sleeping man, smiling at the irony.

" _I would have thought he'd slept enough,"_ he muses to himself. She stirs beneath him, and he can feel her eyelashes fluttering against his chin. She's awake.

"How long was I out?" she asks.

"Twenty, maybe twenty-five minutes," he replies softly. "No need to get up just yet." He wonders idly if he says this for her benefit, or his own.

"Where are the boys?" she asks, yawning. The little sound she makes . . . yeah, he could get used to this.

"Kevin is outside," he answers. "Last I saw he was chatting it up with the doctors. Esposito is downstairs, roaming. For some reason, he thinks Maddox will make a move here."

That awakens her, as he knew it would. That type of information he wisely chooses not to withhold from her right now.

"Why does he think that?" she asks, and he feels her stiffen beneath him.

"He said it's just a gut feeling, how the guy operates. Kevin seems to think he's on to something."

She simply nods her head, and relaxes again, surprising him. It's been a hell of a twenty hours, and he cannot blame her for releasing it all for just a few more minutes. She gives herself another three minutes before switching modes. He feels it the instant it happens, as everything about her – formerly soft against him – hardens.

"Play time is over?" he asks with a smirk.

"Coffee time," she replies with a wink. "Need to wake up."

"I'll come with you," he tells her.

"No, you mind staying here?" she asks. "I'd rather not leave dad alone right now. Silly I know, but –"

"Not silly at all," he interrupts. "Bring two?"

"That will be a switch," she smiles and walks toward her father's bed, placing her hand on his forehead, and leaning down she places a soft kiss there. She smiles for just a moment, and then heads out the door, looking for some liquid energy.

She waves at Kevin Ryan who is still engaged in an animated discussion with one of the nurses on the floor. She laughs to herself, recalling the young detective's earlier desire to go into medicine. She walks into the family waiting area, and heads straight for the coffee. She pours herself a cup and then one for Castle.

"Wow," she says aloud, just doing a mental rewind on the past day, and far apart she and the writer were for just a brief instant – and marvels at how close they are now. Oh, they aren't out of the woods regarding that little trust issue, but at least they are talking now. No flirting, no innuendo. Just a bit of honest talk. And that honesty has torn down walls, allowing them to share even a physical closeness that just two days ago she knows she would not have allowed.

She walks out the door and is headed down the hall when the door to her left suddenly opens. She is pulled roughly into the room, spilling the coffees in the process. Both cups end up on the floor, their contents running quickly. She has no time to recover when she is spun around and is now eye to eye with Cole Maddox.

There is a fierceness to his look, and experience tells her that this is going to be one of those moments – where the only way she walks away is to take a life. She reaches for her weapon in her shoulder harness, but Maddox tightens his grip on her.

"Uh uh uh, detective," he tells her with a smile. "No guns near the patient rooms. Now, make one sound and I slit your throat here and now. Be a good girl and come up to the rooftop with me, and at least you'll have a fighting chance. Not that it will help you."

Choosing to bide her time, she allows him to roughly pull her back out into the hall, and she almost slips in the spilled coffee that covers the floor. She half walks and is half dragged another thirty feet down the hallway to the stairwell leading to the roof.

Every fiber in her wants to scream for Kevin Ryan or Castle – both of whom are just a shout away. But she knows in her heart that this man means exactly what he says. For some reason, he's taking her upstairs for a showdown. How this became so personal _for him_ , she can't figure. After all, she's the one who got shot. It doesn't matter – her only chance at survival is to play along.

Back in Jim Beckett's room, Kevin Ryan has ended his intellectual bonding moment and walks into the room, finding Castle sitting in the chair. Castle looks up and is happy to see the detective – it means he can watch over Jim Beckett while Castle goes to find Beckett. Her ability to accept truly awful coffee cannot be overstated.

He walks around the corner and into the family break room, which he finds empty.

" _Strange,"_ he thinks, because he didn't pass her. Perhaps she is in the ladies room. Just thinking about the ladies room makes him think about the men's room, and that's all it takes for him to now empty his bladder. Glancing ahead, he sees the sign for the men's room and walks toward it. He barely stays upright as he slips in the liquid on the floor. He notices it is coffee, and he feels his heart skip a beat.

" _No coincidences,"_ he reminds himself, and now his alarmed. Kate went to get coffee, she's not here, and there is spilled coffee on the floor. His gaze moves ahead and he can see a slight drag mark of coffee heading toward . . .

"Dear God, no!" he says aloud, and reaches into his pocket for his phone, while at the same time yelling at the top of his lungs.

"Kevin! Kevin!" he screams, as he searches for the detective's contact information. He punches the information in and listens to the first ring before hearing the detective come scrambling around the corner, weapon drawn.

"Castle, what –"

"Beckett," he says loudly. "He has Beckett," and points toward the door for the stairwell to the rooftop.

Ryan's reaction is instantaneous.

"You stay here, Castle, and I mean it," he tells him, and punches his right arm just to remind the author that he is in no shape for what is coming. He has his phone in hand as he quickly jogs toward the stairwell.

"Javi! He has her, Javi, on the rooftop."

He doesn't have time to explain as Javi hangs up and begins sprinting toward the elevators. He can take the elevators up to the top floor, and then search for the rooftop entry from that floor. He cradles his Colt M4 Carbine assault rifle, issued to officers and detectives for special crimes investigative units, shaking away the thoughts that plague him about his old friend who clearly now must be put down.


	24. Chapter 24

**Forty-Seven: Chapter 24**

 **DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe.

 _ **Wednesday, March 28, 2012 – 9:28 a.m. – On one of the Rooftops at the New York Methodist Hospital in Brooklyn**_

A hard right hand sends Kate Beckett flying backwards, as she lands roughly on her side atop the roof at Methodist Hospital. Only a couple of floors below her, safely in the comforts of his hospital bed, lies Jim Beckett. She is so close, yet not close at all.

Once on the roof, Cole Maddox had grabbed a chair and wedged it against the door. It strikes her that he has this battleground so well planned out that he took the time – in advance – to bring a chair up from one of the rooms for this very purpose.

They have been fighting – if you can call it that – for less than two minutes, and she is honest enough to admit to herself that she is slowly, methodically getting her ass kicked. He disarms her so easily, so effortlessly, and with that damn smile of his.

She gets up and circles with a short kick that actually is very good, very effective. Against most opponents.

For Cole Maddox, his special forces training almost make a joke of Beckett's normally efficient and highly effective moves. He smiles with every parry, every strike, every blow, every block. The fear and bile are now erupting at the base of her throat as she realizes that she is not even close to match for this man. She is going to lose. She is going to die. She is a mouse to him, and he is toying with her, pawing her left and right.

She tries a hard left jab – he blocks it easily. She follows with a second jab, also blocked by his elbow. She continues with a right cross that connects with his jaw. For a brief instant, she allows herself the exuberant thought that victory is a possibility. She follows with a roundhouse kick to the face that connects perfectly.

And he smiles perfectly in contempt at her, quickly moving forward with a hard blow to the head. Suddenly, she is airborne, being flipped back to the ground. She lands on her knees, pain shooting straight down her shins. She can taste the blood in her mouth. He is dismantling her piece by piece.

"At least tell me who you work for," she manages as she spits out blood on the rooftop.

"Detective, you just don't get it," tells her with his trademark smirk. "You still don't understand who you are dealing with."

A final burst of fury erupts in Kate Beckett, as she lunges forward.

"Neither do you!" she spits out. A final Cole Maddox kick sends her spiraling over the edge. Her hand – at the last moment – reaches out and grabs the ledge. Mercifully, she gets it, and manages to put both hands on it. But it's too late. He has taken too much out of her. She tries and tries but cannot pull herself up. She momentarily thinks of Richard Castle and how she and Ryan laughed as he tried to pull himself up out of the hole in the cemetery.

Castle.

Just thinking of the man brings a tear to her eyes. So close. So very damn close. She briefly thinks of the words that Castle has told her just yesterday.

" _Kate Beckett, if you aren't careful, if we aren't careful, you're going to end up bleeding out on a street, or ambushed in some alley, or God-forbid, hanging off the ledge of some building."_

Damn, did the man have to be so horribly prophetic!

Maddox walks to the ledge and gazes down at her. Below he sees the police cars that have just arrived. They will be up here in moments, assuming they can get by his little barricade. He probably could get by them, but what's the use? His picture is on television by now, so his identity is kaput. Bracken is not going to like this. Not one bit.

He knows he has messed up, and exposed the Senator. He allowed this to get far too personal, and now it's going to cost him. The Senator has already started to clean house, and after today, he's going to be a part of the house cleaning. Javier has been proven correct once again. No, Bracken won't like this. Worse – he won't tolerate it. He knows he will probably dispatch the assassin. She will come for him. And she doesn't fail. Ever. He thinks about his chances against her and smiles sadly.

" _I won't even see her coming,"_ he muses to himself.

He gazes across the rooftops and smiles. Suddenly, he reaches down with both hands and grabs Detective Kate Beckett by both of her hands. He grunts as he pulls her up, and drops her at his feet. He looks down her now, seeing the fear and confusion in her eyes.

"His name is Bracken, Detective," he tells her. "He was an assistant district attorney a long time ago. He came across a few cops trying to play mafia and turned it against them. Used the money to fund his first campaign. Your mom found out. He had her killed."

Kate Beckett is both horrified and exultant at the news. The same conflict rages in her about this man who shot her last summer, just kicked her over the edge this morning, and for some reason she may never understand, has chosen to save her life.

He continues glancing down at her, then he brings his head up, looking out into the distance. It's a strange move. What is he looking at? Who is he looking for? She follows his gaze but doesn't see anything or anyone. She is too weak from hanging to even move.

"You will either take this information with you to your grave, or you will use it to bring him down," Maddox tells her as he finally takes his Glock out and points it directly at her head below.

"Which one happens?" he asks her aloud, and then answers for her. "Well, that depends on Javier."

Turning to the opposite rooftop, he yells out: "Isn't that right Javier? I know you're out there, Javi. I'm a dead man walking. You know this, Javi. You know he won't let me live. I let this one get too personal. There are others at his beck and call. They will come for me. They . . . _she_ will come for me."

He glances back down at Kate Beckett, who has a look of peace on her face. Somehow, in these frantic moments, she has found herself, her peace. She knows her destiny and it ends right here this morning.

"Do this for me, Javi," Cedric Marks yells out. "One last favor for a friend, Javi."

Glancing down a final time at Kate, he smiles – actually smiles, and this time it isn't his typical arrogant smirk. She sees, for a brief instant, the young boy who befriended Javier Esposito. The young boy whose father pulled Javier out of the mire.

"Detective," he begins, "New Amsterdam Bank and Trust. Safe deposit box 2727."

He turns again toward the opposite rooftop.

"One last favor, Javi. Me or her. Choose now." He begins counting slowly, in cadence.

"Five"

"Four"

"Three"

He clicks the safety off.

"Two"

Cedric Marks' head propels backwards as he feels the massive pressure explode in his chest. He never hears the cracking sound of the kill shot that echoes from the opposite rooftop, some twenty-five to thirty yards away.

He lies on the ground, staring up at the morning sky when Detective Kate Beckett's face appears over him. She is close, inspecting the wound, and, God help her, trying to save his life.

"Good luck, detective," he spits out. "Poetic jus-"

Cole Maddox's eyes glass over, staring lifelessly at the blue sky above. She glances across the rooftop from her kneeling position and watches her longtime friend and partner on his knees. The butt of his M4 Carbine rifle stands vertically atop the ground, holding him up, as he weeps loudly.


	25. Chapter 25

**Forty-Seven: Chapter 25**

 **DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe.

 _ **Wednesday, March 28, 2012 – 9:57 a.m. – At New York Methodist Hospital in Brooklyn**_

"Are you sure you are all right?" Castle asks, watching Kate gingerly touch an area around her ribs that is giving her problems.

"I think so," she tells him, but her gaze is firmly fixed on Javier Esposito, who stands motionless at the door to Jim Beckett's room. Yesterday he came across his childhood best friend, a man he had fought for and fought with – both in high school and in the Middle East. Yesterday he saw this man for the first time in years. Today, he killed him.

It doesn't matter that the Cedric Marks he knew probably died in Iraq. That man never made it back. It doesn't matter that the Cedric Marks who he saw yesterday was a different cat altogether. It doesn't matter that the Cedric Marks he had in his scopes on the rooftop was a hired gun. Who had shot his partner last summer - who had shot his friend yesterday - who had knocked him unconscious yesterday. He was still Cedric.

And he still killed him.

She's taken a beating, physically. She thinks back for a moment and decides that yeah, this was the worst beating she has ever taken. But she realizes that her friend at the door has just taken an emotional beating. She imagines for a moment, how she would feel herself if something happened to turn Castle, and she had to put him down. She imagines the conflict, how she would feel, how it would probably kill her to do it. Then she thinks about Javier, and quickly does the math for how long Javier and Maddox were friends. Good friends – best friends.

Castle seems to read her mind, staring back at their friend who has a blank, expressionless stare.

"Let him adjust," Castle tells her softly as he glances back at their friend. Kevin Ryan stands beside Esposito, speaking no words. His presence is enough.

"I do have something to tell you, though," Castle says, now focusing back on the woman sitting next to him. There is a bruise already forming on her face. He touches it gently and she tries not to wince. He is thankful that Esposito was on the opposite rooftop. He is thankful that Esposito made the decision that he did.

"I have something to tell you, too," she tells him, and he can see the fire re-igniting in her eyes.

"Me, first," he remarks, which immediately tells her that this is important. Always the gentleman, him wanting to talk first is telling. And the fact that he doesn't have that boyish excitement about this tells her this is serious.

"Kate," he says with a pause, "I think we may have figured out who killed your mother." He tests her eyes for a reaction and is surprised to get none.

"Kate?" he questions, wondering if she'd heard him."

"Senator William Bracken," she simply replies, with no expression save the wincing from the pain from breathing.

"How in the world did you find that out?" he asks, wondering if Gates has placed a call to her top homicide detective.

"Maddox," she replies.

"Maddox?" Castle remarks incredulously.

"On the rooftop," she begins. "He knocked me over the ledge, as you know, and then for some reason – thank you God – he pulled me back up. Told me that Bracken was behind all of it; told me why."

She glances at Esposito once more as she tells him this last part. She knows he hears her. Castle simply stares at her for a moment, taking this new information in. Apparently, a massive change of heart occurred up on the rooftop. A rooftop redemption, if you will. Years late, of course, but in time to save her life . . . and maybe set her on the road to closure.

"I wonder if this means you . . . I wonder if this means that you are out of the woods?" he guesses aloud. "I mean, I would think that –"

"Bracken will probably send someone else," she interrupts. "Maddox said . . . and I don't think he was talking to me. I think he was talking to himself, out loud. But he said Bracken has more resources like Maddox that he can bring. He even mentioned some assassin – a woman – who clearly spooked him. Said he would never even see her coming."

"Shit," Castle remarks.

"Yeah, my thought exactly."

"What do we do?" Castle asks. Kate Beckett is quiet for a few seconds.

"We take the war to him," Esposito tells them from the doorway. There is no emotion in his voice.

Kate glances at her sleeping father in the bed and back at her friends.

"Yes, that's exactly what we do," she remarks, standing up.

 _ **Wednesday, March 28, 2012 – 11:03 a.m. – At the New Amsterdam Bank and Trust**_

"Which deposit box are you interested in, detectives?" Mr. Jones asks. The assistant bank manager stands in front of them at the small counter.

"Box 2727," Kate Beckett replies as she and Javier Esposito put their badges away. Castle stands a step behind the two. It's been a couple of months since he has stepped foot inside this bank. Renovations from the bomb blast have done a good job cleaning the place and making it passable . . . professional. But the scaffold out front, the workers still there – it's not the greatest memory for Richard Castle.

He shakes the thought away, turning to face Javier Esposito. It had been an awkward ride from the hospital, with Esposito as quite as a church mouse – which is definitely not the Esposito they know. Regardless, all evidence points to the attack on Jim Beckett being a rogue move by Cole Maddox – nee Cedric Marks. But that's an assumption none of them are willing to take. So Kevin Ryan has stayed behind at the hospital room, to make sure nothing else happens to the man. After all, Kate has said that Maddox told her Bracken would send more.

Moments later, Jones returns with a single box in his hands, which he places in front of the trio.

"Since this is a police matter, I suppose this is all right," Jones begins. According to the paperwork, this was only to be opened by Mr. Maddox or a Mr. Esposito. I don't suppose –"

"Excuse me!?" Javier Esposito remarks, confused.

"Says it right here," Jones remarks, and seconds later they are glancing at the official signature form, which draws an unintelligible remark from Javier.

"Doesn't matter," Castle tells the group, glancing down. "Open it, Kate."

Jones opens the box, and there are two pieces of paper there, along with an old computer CD. The first paper is obviously a bank statement, showing bank wires and transfers, deposits and withdrawals. The bank is clearly an off-shore account. The second paper is also a bank statement, but this one is from a local bank.

"What are we looking at?" Castle muses aloud.

"Two banks. One local," Esposito begins. "If Cedric was on the level . . . if Cedric was telling the truth, then one will be Bracken's local account from years ago, while the second will be his off-shore account."

"How can we tell?" Kate asks.

"Well, for one, his name is listed as the account holder for this one," Castle smiles, always amused at how these two detectives who can find a needle in a haystack often initially miss the most obvious information. "Look for transfers from one account to the other," Castle continues, now following Esposito's logic.

"That shows linkage," she nods in agreement. The trio takes the contents to a table nearby and sit down. Seconds later, three heads form a teepee of sorts, hovering over the papers, looking for that 'linkage'.

"Got it," Castle says, putting his finger on an entry. "Esposito nods his head, having found the same entry simultaneously.

"You're right," Kate says excitedly. "Clearly a transfer of funds from this account to the off-shore account. So now we know that Bracken has transferred money to an offshore account –"

"Multiple times," Castle adds, pointing out a second entry. As he does, Esposito uses his finger to silently point out a third much farther down the page.

Both Castle and Beckett nod at the finding. They continue to glance at the numbers on the paper, which is a historical document in their efforts to solve this puzzle. They are interrupted by Esposito.

"Kate," is all he says, but his finger is pointing to a transaction on the second, offshore account document. It is a transfer to a stateside account, but not the one belonging to Bracken. His finger is on the date of the transaction.

January 3, 1999.

Kate gasps, and sits back down, with Castle standing over her now, rubbing her shoulders.

"Easy, Kate," he whispers into her ear, glancing at Javier. Javier remains quiet, but now points out a second entry to the pair. This one is another transfer from the offshore account to the same account shown on the January 9th transaction. The date on this one is January 10th, 1999.

"Breathe, Kate," Castle tells her. Esposito watches the reaction, and although he is quiet, he knows the turmoil going on inside his friend.

"I'm sorry, Beckett," Esposito manages, as he takes the now empty box back to the counter where Mr. Jones still waits. He returns to the table and rejoins his friends. Still quiet.

He sits, and both he and Richard Castle are having the same thoughts at the same time. How in the world does one react when they are viewing – with their own eyes – the money trail for the initial payment and final payment of a hit against a loved one? A parent.

Inside, she is seething, crying, completely falling apart. Will this stand up in court. Probably not. Circumstantial, they will say. But it is enough for her. It is enough for the two men who are with her. And while the hurricane pounds her heart, her head stays focused. The tears in her eyes don't cloud her thinking. They focus her thinking.

"We find this account," she says pointing to the receiving account on the 10th. "We verify that this account belonged to Dick Coonan."

"And if it did," Castle adds in agreement, "then we know for certain . . . Bracken is our man."

"Then what?" Kate asks. "It is circumstantial. Somehow, he will find his way out of this. It's a trail, but not the smoking gun a jury would need."

"And he's a crafty, experienced politician," Castle adds, then repeats Kate's question. "So what then?"

"Then," Detective Esposito replies, "as I already said . . . we take the war to him. We declare war."

"And how exactly do we do that?" Kate asks. There is no sarcasm in her voice – just genuine confusion as to their next step.

"Oh, I think we can figure something out," Esposito muses darkly.

 _ **Wednesday, March 28, 2012 – 8:37 p.m. – At Senator William Bracken's Washington, D.C. Residence**_

She stands on the sidewalk leading up to the colonial home, as darkness settles in over the nation's capital. She is hesitating. This is a moment she has been planning for, pleading for, walking towards for over a decade. Now she is here, and the moment begins to rise, grow on its own. It's becoming too big for her. The voice in her ear, however, calms her, steels her resolve.

"You can do this, Beckett," Detective Javier Esposito tells her over the earpiece she wears tucked in her ear, and covered by long locks of hair. "You've waited over a third of your life for this moment. Now get your ass in there."

" _Declare war"_ Javier Esposito had told them. And he had told them how. You walk up to the bully, you tell him things are changing, and you punch him in the mouth. Hard. You let him know this is no longer a one-sided battle. It's a full-on war. With consequences. Up to this point, the only person suffering any consequences has been Kate Beckett, and a slew of families mourning dead bodies.

" _No more. After tonight, he knows he's in a fight,"_ she tells herself, as she walks the final two steps and – before she can lose her nerve – she knocks on the door.

She knows he is home. Detective Kevin Ryan - who sits in the car down the street with Castle in the backseat, while Esposito sits in the front - has confirmed this half an hour ago. Two hard knocks brings the Senator to the door. He looks through the peephole and only sees what he imagines is a woman with long hair, wearing a baseball cap and looking down at her feet.

"Stupid salespeople – the sign says no soliciting," he mutters aloud to himself as he opens the door. She lifts her head, her eyes falling upon his. He's cool as a cucumber, but his eyes betray him briefly. The recognition of the woman before him – and the shock of her being here – tells her all she needs to know.

"May I come in, Senator?" she asks.

"Of course, Detective," he replies, using her title. There is no use playing dumb, acting ignorant. No need for games. He's learned this in the past – own up to the moment, seize the moment, win the moment. She knows. He will play it from here.

Once inside, he becomes the perfect host, the perfect gentleman.

"Can I offer you a drink," he asks, knowing she will refuse. Again, she surprises him.

"Scotch," she replies. Her acceptance of his offer and her choice of drink give him pause. Less than a minute in, and this is not going the way he would have ever imagined. He knew someday the detective would figure it out. She's not stupid. That's why she needed to die. He wonders if he shouldn't just have allowed Maddox to kill her, as Maddox wanted. And now, he has to lose him before that final job is done.

He'd heard on the news about the kidnapping gone awry of the father of the detective, and the police were linking him to the killings of an attorney and his wife in Connecticut. What he does not know is that Cole Maddox is dead. The detectives of the 12th have kept this information silent until tomorrow. It took some twisting of the arm with Captain Gates, but she finally agreed to a closed lip policy for twenty four hours. Enough time for them to set this first trap.

She watches him open the bottle and grab two glasses. She watches as he pours and then brings the glasses to her. Handed her one, he lifts a glass in a salute.

"To mothers," he toasts, his eyes glinting fire. IF she thinks she is going to come into his home and intimidate him, she obviously has no idea who she is dealing with.

"Easy Kate," Esposito coos in her ear. "He's baiting you. Stay focused."

Kate pushes the bile back down her throat, focusing her eyes on his as she takes a long swallow of the liquid, relishing the burn as it runs down her spine. Then she surprises him once again. She smiles. She reaches into her chest pocket and pulls out a photograph.

He sees the photo coming out, and assumes it is the crime scene photo of her mother, lying bleeding and dead in the alley. He could not be more wrong.

He glances down at the picture she places, face down, in his hand. He turns it over, and finds a picture of Cole Maddox, his lifeless eyes staring back at him. He moves his gaze from the picture to Kate, now understanding the purpose of this visit. For the first time in a decade, he has to suppress a shudder. It's almost imperceptible.

Almost.

"I'm tired of running, Senator," she tells him. "And I'm tired of you getting to play this game from the safety of the cheap seats in the outfield. It's time for you to step into the batter's box."

She takes another swallow – perhaps for strength, perhaps for comfort. Her nerves are calming down, but she recalls the advice from Esposito in the car.

"There will come a point where the adrenaline begins to wear off, and your nerves will start to settle down. Fight against that moment. You _want_ your nerves on edge. You _will need_ to keep that edge."

Now, she fights to keep that edge, that darkness. Elizabeth Bracken picks that second to enter into the living room.

"Bill – who is our guest?" she asks, but Kate immediately realizes from the woman's tone and eyes that she, too, immediately recognizes Kate Beckett. The realization that his wife knows, that his wife could very well be a part of all of this – well, that fires her nerves again giving her the edge she needs to complete this declaration of war.

"Mrs. Bracken, don't insult me," she begins. "You know exactly who I am. And I am here to tell you that the same deal you had with Roy Montgomery, you now have with me. I have copies of certain papers – papers that I confiscated from your friend here," she continues, pointing to the photograph in Bracken's hands.

"Those copies have been sent out to dozens of people, dozens of banks, all with the same instructions. Do not open, upon threat of death. But if anything happens to me, to my family, to anyone I care about, those contents go directly to CNN. They go directly to the local NBC, ABC, CBS and FOX affiliates. For now, we are at détente. But make no mistake Senator. We are at war."

"I have misjudged you, Detective," he tells her, and there is almost admiration in his voice. It sickens her. She turns and faces him.

"Yes you did," she replies with a frosty, grim smile, her eyes darkening. She downs the remaining liquid in her glass and then – in one swift motion – hurls the glass across the room and smashes her fist against the side of his face. Her mother's ring, normally on a necklace around her neck is now on her finger. The stone rips into the Senator's face, drawing blood.

"For the life I lost," she tells him, and then strikes a second blow to his face. This blow brings sends him down to one knee, stunned at the ferocity of the attack.

"Again, Kate!" she hears Javier Esposito hiss into her ear. "He has to know what he is up against now!"

Elizabeth Bracken finally snaps out of her paralyzed shock and moves toward the detective to protect her husband. The straight kick to the stomach she receives sends her backwards, wheezing. It gives Kate Beckett the final opening she needs to place one final blow – from her mother's ring – across the Senator's jaw. His eyes are frantic as he tastes his own blood for the first time since his time in the military. For a moment, his mind wanders, wondering if this is how she took out his assassin, Maddox. He hears her walking away towards the door.

"This isn't over, Detective!" he roars angrily, finally losing his vaunted, precious composure.

"You're right, Senator," she agrees as she opens the door. "This is only the beginning."

She closes the door behind her. Inside, a bruised Senator picks himself up off the ground and walks toward his wife, who herself is picking herself up away from the wall. He holds his hand out, which she accepts as he lifts her to her feet. The blood is now dripping from two wounds on his face onto the floor. He stands in place while she walks quickly into the kitchen, grabbing a paper towel and wetting it in the sink. Seconds later she is back with him, dabbing the wounds.

"Well, that was unexpected," he mutters, regaining his bearings and composure.

"I am sorry, love," she tells him softly as she holds the towel in place to staunch the bleeding. "This may leave a mark." She continues to dab at his wound, and he winces slightly as she applies more pressure.

"When I had her snooping mother killed, I never thought we'd still be facing repercussions all these years later," she tells her husband.

"It was the right decision, Liz," he tells her, raising his hand to hold hers against his face. "We live with those decisions."

"What do you want me to do?" she asks after a few seconds of silence. He thinks about her question for a moment and finally replies.

"Nothing. Nothing right now. As she said, we are in détente. A truce. For now."

"But we _are_ at war, love," she tells him firmly.

"Of that, my dear," he tells her with a small smile, "the detective has been very clear." 


	26. Chapter 26

**Forty-Seven: Chapter 26**

 **DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe.

 **A/N:** I have to thank all of you who have – through reviews and PMs – offered prayers and wishes for my dad. He continues on here in ICU, and the doctors have grown optimistic. He is in God's hands. I'm comfortable with that. I have to admit, when I first started this story a few weeks ago, I had it going in a different direction towards the end. But sometimes life events – like this one – put you in a different frame of mind. So this story has gone in a different direction than originally planned, but over the past few days I have really warmed up to this direction. I hope you enjoy it. Perspex13, your story is such a great freaking diversion for me right now . . .

Again, to all of you sharing prayers – they mean far more than just words on a computer screen. Thank you.

 _ **Wednesday, March 28, 2012 – 9:01 p.m. – Outside Senator Bracken's Washington, D.C. Residence**_

Her heart is still racing, bludgeoning her chest. She can almost hear her pulse pounding in her ears as she walks – okay, it is a very, very fast walk – to the car where Castle, Ryan and Esposito are waiting for her.

Through the earpiece, Javier was able to communicate with her, encouraging her. Through the small microphone and camera she wore as a pin on her lapel, the three men were able to watch and hear everything that transpired inside the house. As planned, she had dropped a small bug in the plant on the table as Bracken had made them drinks. No, it's not going to stand up in court, and they could be in huge trouble. But as Javier reminded each of them – constantly – on the ride down as they waffled back and forth, this is not a police operation. This is a war tactic.

Anyway, no one in that house back there is going to press charges anyway.

As she walks toward the car, her friends wonder – internally - how they are going to break this revelation to her. Elizabeth Bracken's words had stunned each of them, knocking them back into their already cramped seats in the car.

" _When I had her snooping mother killed, I never thought we'd still be facing repercussions all these years later."_

Kate, of course didn't hear the exchange between Mr. and Mrs. Bracken. She had already left the building, so to speak, and it has been a long, long, time since she has felt so . . . so victorious. Javier was right. This _is_ a war. And if she is going to win, then she has to stop acting like a cop and start acting like a soldier.

And there is no one better to help her with this mental transition than Detective Javier Esposito.

She reaches the car, out of breath both from the adrenaline rush of her Bracken encounter, along with the jog from his residence up the block. Opening the front door, she slides in next to Esposito who is in the driver's seat.

"Get us out of here, fast," she tells Esposito who already has the car is motion as her door is shutting. He does a quick U-turn, careful not to make a pass in front of the Bracken's home.

From the backseat, Richard Castle puts a hand on her shoulder, which she immediately covers with one of her own.

"You okay?" he asks, concern evident in his voice. And something else, she notices.

"Yeah," she tells him. "Yeah. It was . . . "

"Exhilarating," Javier Esposito completes the sentence for her, smiling inwardly as he sees her nodding her head rapidly. The man is still quiet, reserved. The team is giving him his space, accepting a word here or there from him. Castle cannot help but notice, however, than 'in the mission', everything took a backseat, as Esposito was calming and supportive, an instructive teacher in her ear while she was inside. But now, back in the car, he has withdrawn once again, fighting whatever demons are tormenting him.

"Beckett," Ryan begins as the car is in motion, "I think you got your declaration of war across just fine."

"I agree," Castle chimes in, feeling her give his hand a comforting squeeze. They have come so far, in just a couple of days.

"Kate," Castle begins, pushing those thoughts away, "the bug you dropped . . . after you left . . . we heard something interesting."

"Freaking unbelievable is more like it," Javier mutters under his breath.

"What is it?" Kate asks, a familiar dread rising.

"Well, I'm not sure how to tell you this, Kate, but –" Castle begins when Ryan cuts to the chase.

"Bracken ordered your mother's murder, Kate," he tells her, watching her until she turns her head to face the two men in the backseat.

"That's not news, Kev," she tells him. We already know this. We just broke and entered into a man's home because –"

"William Bracken didn't order the hit, Kate," Kevin Ryan tells her, and she feels her stomach lurch forward. "His wife did."

 _ **Wednesday, March 28, 2012 – 9:01 p.m. – Inside Senator Bracken's Washington, D.C. Residence**_

Senator William Bracken sits – chuckling – atop a bar stool in the kitchen as Elizabeth Bracken places a gauze over the wound. She's already placed ointment on the two deeper-than-expected gashes.

"Well, that was interesting," he muses aloud. She joins him in smiling. Tonight was unexpected but not unforeseen. Both Brackens have long anticipated – dreaded actually – the moment when Detective Kate Beckett put everything together. Both he and his wife have long known that there was no way she could sit under Roy Montgomery forever without picking up on something. That ultimately cost the former 12th Precinct captain his life.

" _Eventually, it will cost you yours,"_ he thinks to himself about the detective.

"So . . . debrief?" Elizabeth asks softly as she continues dabbing around his face.

"She knows something," he admits, "but not as much as she would like us to believe."

"I agree," his wife smiles. "If she had a lot of real evidence, then tonight would not have happened."

"Agree," he replies. "She has something – but she knows it is circumstantial. It won't hold up, either because of the evidence itself or for how she acquired such evidence. Either way, if she had something that would stand up in court, she wouldn't be making a deal with us. She'd have shown up with an arrest warrant."

"Have to admit, I never saw her as the vigilante type," his wife says again. "Breaking and entering, assaulting –"

"Technically, it wasn't breaking and entering, love," he tells her. "She knocked, I answered, I allowed her in. Even gave her a drink, for crying out loud," and now his chuckle grows louder.

"From your good scotch?" Elizabeth asks, feigning surprise.

"My best stash," he smiles. He gazes at her as she finishes working on his face.

"So . . . what do you want to do?" she asks again.

"I don't mean to dodge, love, but I really don't know right now," he admits. "I never want to over-react, or under-react," he continues. "Even keel as you always say."

"But some response is required, Bill," she tells him evenly. "Do you really believe she has something that could damage us?"

"Damage as in put either of us in jail? Hell no," he replies. "As I said, if she had something like that, this would have been a very different meeting. Damaging enough to potentially derail our White House plans? Yeah, yeah, I think she does."

"Then a direct response is out of the question," she agrees.

"Sometimes, love," he reminds her, "the best response is no response. She has fired the opening salvo. Let her feel good about this. And let a little time grow under her feet."

" _Their_ feet," she corrects, and he is forced to agree.

"Yes, it does seem like here little team has . . . morphed into something else," he tells her.

"So we don't call her?" Elizabeth wonders aloud, and he pauses for a few seconds before answering.

"No. No, I don't think so," he tells her. "I was going to call her in to take care of Maddox. That problem, however, has been taken care of."

"I will miss Cedric," she says, with genuine sadness.

"I, too," he agrees. "But I warned you against engaging him again. He took Beckett's survival personally. Although for the life of me I don't know why."

"She is a thorn, Bill, that's why. And you know what we do with thorns and weeds . . ."

"We pull them, Liz," he agrees. "But at the right time. Timing is everything. I will give it to the detective, tonight worked for her because of the timing. We didn't' expect it. And when we strike against her and her friends – they won't expect it."

"So once again . . . what would you like me to –"

"Nothing, love," he tells her, hopping off the bar stool, and feeling his padded face gently. "For now, all I want to do is find out how much she really knows. Then we work to diffuse it."

"I still say we should call Ele-"

"No, dear, we can't. And you know why," he reminds her. "That will bring _him_ into play. He keeps a finger on the pulse. He always knows when she is activated, and why. You know this. Activating her for Maddox is one thing. Bringing her in for the detective? No. We can't afford for him to get engaged."

She nods her head in agreement, recalling a similar and far more sinister late night meeting here in this same house, last summer after the detective was shot. The warning was very clear – harm her again, or harm the writer, and political upward mobility would be the least of their worries.

"As usual, you are correct, my love," she smiles, now moving toward the back of the house, toward the bedroom.

"So . . . where were we before we were so rudely interrupted . . ." he smiles in return, following her to the back.

"I do hope the detective didn't drain you of too much energy," she purrs, and quickens her pace, with him close behind.


	27. Chapter 27

**Forty-Seven: Chapter 27**

 **DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe.

 _ **Thursday, March 29, 2012 – 12:01 p.m. – At Richard Castle's Loft**_

The friends sit around the large, twelve person table in Richard Castle's dining room. Kate Beckett is struck that – in the limited times she has been here – she has never sat at the massive piece of furniture. The exquisite red oak stands in stark contrast with the rest of the place, further impressing her to the writer's eclectic tastes.

Captain Victoria Gates has graciously given the team the day off, and part of that is in gratitude for the last couple of day's work, and partly because of lack of workload today. She sits in one of the chairs next to Jenny Ryan, just immensely touched that she would be invited to this event at Castle's home. It's no secret that she has been hard on the novelist, never comfortable with him in her precinct. After the last two days – well, she's still uncomfortable but has to admit – begrudgingly – that even she is becoming a fan of the man, if not his writings.

At the large table sit Richard Castle at the head, with Martha Rodgers to his left. Next to her is Alexis, then Javier, who sits quietly next to Lanie. At the end on the opposite side sits Captain Gates who is next to Jenny Ryan, who leans into her husband. The last two spots belong to Jim Beckett and Kate Beckett, who sits next to Castle.

Castle has not told anyone why they are here – which even under the most normal of situations would cause a bit of uneasiness. However, given the past two days, any announcement their friend may make is disconcerting, as everyone is tending to lean toward the negative.

The lunch spread in front of them is heavenly. Castle has catered in – something he normally doesn't do – but the aroma of authentic Italian assaulting everyone's nostrils is overwhelming. There are no complaints from anyone.

"Dig in everyone," he tells them, as he takes his time going from person to person, leaning over and serving wine to each person – even allowing his daughter some this afternoon. It's not the first time he has offered his daughter wine, and most times she politely refuses. But there is something about today that tells her that partaking with everyone is important.

As the group begins to eat, Kate notices that everyone has a plate of food in front of them except Castle, who continues to stand at the head of the table. Finally, he sits, and takes a sip of afternoon wine. He glances at her quickly, giving her a radiant smile before turning his attentions to his guests. The conversations grow loud with laughter as good food, good drink and good friends allow the stress of the past days to drip away.

Twenty minutes later, the conversation begins to fall off, and an almost quiet settles on the room, as conversations are no longer noisy and across the table, but are not more personal, intimate. Castle nods to himself, and stands.

"I'm glad we all were able to move our schedules around to be here this morn – this afternoon, excuse me," he begins, tapping his knife on a wine glass. Kate has to stifle a snicker, wondering who gets the embarrassing toast this afternoon. Her money is on Javier.

"You will recall," Castle continues, "that I asked everyone to clear their calendars earlier this week, right after the bombing in the plaza."

Heads nod and the mood turns somewhat solemn. It was a hard case for everyone, including Alexis who spent time working in the morgue. Castle continues speaking to the group.

"Right away, all of us were struck by this case – possibly for different reasons. For me, it was just the suddenness of it all. Watching the parade of families and friends grieving in the morgue, realizing that each and every single one of them had plans for that evening, for the next day. A date with a boyfriend or girlfriend, dinner with a wife or husband, a game to watch their kids play, a school course to take. And those plans were abruptly ended, a lunch gathering of friends," he concludes, circling his hands at the table in front of him.

"Those plans ended without warning or prejudice," he goes on somberly. "That's what struck me the most about it. We've had many cases together, but the finality of this one, watching loved ones and their reactions . . . well, it got me thinking – which we all know is a dangerous thing."

Thank God for the Castle humor, as a rich and vibrant meal is getting ready to settle poorly in stomachs at the current rate.

"Tomorrow isn't promised to us," Castle finally says after a brief pause, which includes another sip of wine. "Every one of us knows this, we know it intuitively, we say it so often that it is nothing more than a cliché . . . but for those families we watched, for those victims we saw . . . it is so much more than a cliché. It is now their reality."

Heads continue to nod as most of the people at the table realize that Castle has easily articulated exactly what each of them have felt about the bombing case.

"That's when it hit me, when I remembered something I had learned – reminded actually – during one of my book discovery sessions," he tells them, a small smile forming on his face.

"In ancient times, there was an event – the Greek term of this event is eulogia. It means praise. In modern times, we call it a eulogy. We reserve the praise from this event for people who have died. The sad thing is that . . . I don't know about you, but I watched and listened to some of the things families were telling their dead loved ones in the morgue as they identified the bodies. And a single theme rang true for many of them. They wished they had said nicer things, better things, truer things while they were alive to hear them. The Greeks – they didn't wait for people to die. They had living eulogies, praising someone while they could still hear the praise."

Kate Beckett wipes a single tear that falls down her cheek, grasping the hand of Jim Beckett roughly. For the second time in the past couple of days – for different reasons – she has been reminded of the lyrics from a song from another generation that somehow found their home in her heart.

 _In this world today while we're living, some folks say the worst of us they can_

 _But when we are dead and in our caskets, they always slip some lilies in your hand_

 _Won't you give me flowers while I'm living and let me enjoy them while I can_

 _Please don't wait till I'm ready to be buried and then slip some lilies in my hand_

The words are pounding in her head now, with far more meaning than ever before. She squeezes Jim's hand hard, wondering if he knows how much she loves him, how much she respects him, how proud she is that he has overcome his demons, how sorry she is that – for years – she hardened her heart to him. Does he know how much he means to her? Does he know how much she wants him to hold grandchildren in his hands?

At the table, emotions are bubbling over, as Castle sees the unintended result of his initial words. He watches Alexis lean into Martha, unable to hear what she is saying. He watches Kevin Ryan, his head atop Jenny's while his mouth moves – words not heard by anyone but Jenny. Captain Victoria Gates has a faraway look in her eyes. Lanie Parish holds the hand of Javier Esposito, whose fierce gaze is fixated on Richard Castle, who now continues, undeterred.

"I've heard it said like this," he continues, almost mimicking the words of the song Kate recalls. "Send me flowers while I can smell them. Say good things about me while I can hear them. And so that is the point of this afternoon, mother," he says, glancing now over at Martha Rodgers, his gaze staying on her. Her eyes brim with tears upon realization that this meal, this get-together, this entire small intimate event – it is for her. It was planned quickly by her son days ago – but it is for her.

She hears the sniffles in the room, knowing they are for her. And her gaze returns to her son – thankfully – whose eyes are clear and sparkling with mirth, whose smile is genuine and caring, and whose words begin to melt her heart.

"I'm sure at some point in our unique relationship, mother, you have wondered what I might say at your funeral. Do I think you used your gifts for others? What would my consistent theme be? Would I tell jokes? Did I get your sense of humor? Did I know how much you loved me? Let me answer all of those questions for you now, mother. Because you are so loved. A single mother, before valuing single moms was popular. A single mother when people looked at you and figured – 'well, she's a woman, she knows how to raise a kid, she doesn't need any help' – a single woman who went from job to job to job, making a career, and making a young boy feel special, feel empowered . . .

Ten minutes later, Alexis Castle stands, unprompted, and begins speaking great memories of her grandmother. Meals shared, laughs shared, tears shared. She speaks of times when her dad was plaing things footloose and fancy with a model or an actress or an attorney – and she and Grams would be together. She speaks of walks in the park with Dad, riding on his shoulders, and getting home to the apartment where he would hand her off to Grams, and they would run around playing games while Dad was writing.

There are smiles and tears around the room, listening to the stories, but also recalling their own memories. Memories of a father. Memories of a mother. A grandmother. And new memories of a spouse, a girlfriend, a boyfriend.

For Javier Esposito, the memories are hard. Memories of a father he barely knew who left him. And memories of another man, and baseball fields from the past, memories which push him from the table. He walks around the table to Kate Beckett, bending and placing a kiss on her cheek, drawing more tears from the woman. He continues toward Castle, who instinctively understands and begins walking toward the front door. Esposito gives him a quick hug, which Castle extends. A couple of pats of the back, and the door opens, and he is gone.

Castle returns to the table, and squats next to Kate Beckett, who is by now, an emotional mess, along with others at the table. He gazes softly into her eyes, forcing her to stay with his.

"Forty-seven hours, Kate," he says softly with a sad smile. "Forty-seven hours ago, not even two days, I stood in the viewing room, watching my heart get crushed, watching my world implode. Forty-seven hours later, we sit here with the chance for a new beginning. The man who shot you is dead. The man who . . . the woman who ordered your mother's murder is no longer a faceless, nameless figure in the background. And you love me. And I love you. I chased you, wooed you, I frustrated you. I embarrassed you. I joined your quest – for four years. And now in just forty-seven hours . . ."

She leans in, giving him a long hug as he listens to her breaths break with small sobs, and finally the tears begin to well in his own eyes as she places a soft, breathy kiss on his lips and their foreheads touch. They stay this way for a few more seconds before he backs off, a smile on his lips, glancing at Jim Beckett. She turns to face her father sheepishly, while Castle rises and returns to his chair and slides it around the top of the table next to Martha.

"I love you, Mother," he tells her. Their other words spoken to each other are not audible to anyone at the table.

 _ **Thursday, March 29, 2012 – 2:07 p.m. – In Queens, New York**_

Detective Javier Esposito walks up the sidewalk to the doorway of the small modest home. It has been more than three years since he has been here. His heart skips as he places his knuckles on the door, delaying just for a few seconds as he closes his eyes and takes a breath. Finally, opening his eyes, he knocks hard on the door.

A few seconds pass and the door opens, and he comes face to face with an older gentleman, probably Jim Beckett's age. His silver hair is fading, but his body looks to be in good shape, regardless of the man's age.

Their eyes meet, and mist at the same time, as Javier hands Christian Marks a crisply folded American flag.

"Hello Pops," Javier greets, as Marks tucks the flag under his arm and pulls a sobbing Javier into a bear hug, and into the home, shutting the door behind them.

 **A/N:** This ends this story, which I will probably pick up in a couple of months again with a follow-up tale picking up with the Brackens. I'll be posting the next story in the Different Road Taken in the next few days.

For those who don't know, a living eulogy is actually a wonderful way to praise the life and accomplishments of someone dear in your life. And as I sit here in ICU with my dad, going on two weeks now, one consolation I do have is that – a couple of years ago at Thanksgiving – we did a living eulogy for my mom and dad. He knows, and she knows, how special they are to all of us – their kids and grandkids, how impactful their lives have been. I cannot more strongly urge each of you to find the time to do something like that for you parents, your wives, your husbands, your children. Tomorrow is not promised, and each of us would love to smell the flowers and hear the kind words.

Thank you to all of you for your prayers and well wishes. You are faceless, but you strengthen me. Many of you are nameless, but your thoughts matter. Thank you.


End file.
